Spasmodic
by Fruitiest of Mallards
Summary: A drabbleseries. This seems to be a trend throughout the Phandom nowadays – and who am I do turn down the opportunity to perpetuate a community that should never die? Not even half-die?
1. The Ideal of True Love

_**SPASMODIC.**_

_a drabbleseries._

* * *

_written by : celeste angela pichowsky ( aka, __**Fruitiest of Mallards**__ on FF & __**cellyangiechowski**__ on deviantART )_

_original "Danny Phantom" concept © Butch Hartman & Nickelodeon_

_no copyright infringement intended_

* * *

Inspired by **Sapphireswimming**, **Cordria**, **HaiJu**, **AnneriaWings**, **pearl84**, and all the other wonderful _DP_ writers, out there.

I, for one, am glad to aid in keeping the Phandom alive ( half-alive? ), if only just for a little while longer.

If a piece is unfinished, I'll state so at the ending point. I have an old account, **Neversaid-I-Madesense**, which also has some _DP_ Phanfiction, including the intro to what was meant to be a multi-chapter fic, _Abstruse_, which … I never continued. Yes, that's me, unwise Celly, who can't maintain things reliably worth a darn. Blagh.

I'm going to rewrite it as a oneshot, here in this very series, though. Eventually.

You may notice that there will be some common themes in a lot of these 'shots. That's because the whole purpose of this drabbleseries is to help me get more acquainted with Hartman's world, because one : I just need an excuse to practice writing, anyway, and two : there is an extremely long fanfic I am working on in the background, a rewrite of the entire first season of the show, which will then be followed by season two, and then, season three … it's my interpretation of the whole _DP_ universe. Headcanons are in abundance. Expect to see a ton!

I'm ambitious, right?

I gotta be.

And, well, maybe, "drabbleseries," just isn't the correct term for whatever it is I'm doing, here. The way I write, these will usually be way too long to qualify as a traditional one-hundred-word drabble. Who knows, some day I may surprise even myself.

If anyone's curious about the title ... _spasmodic_, **adjective** : occurring or done in brief, irregular bursts, "_spasmodic_ fighting continued." Caused by, subject to, or in the nature of a spasm or spasms, "a _spasmodic_ cough." Snagged off Google definitions. Sounds pretty accurate.

All of my oneshots are open to be adopted by other Phanfictioneers, more than once, and by different people ( unless I state otherwise )! All I ask for is a link, and credit, and the mutual agreement not to steal the more specific headcanons without permission. Thank you so much for reading this ridiculously overlong intro.

Enjoy!

* * *

_**THE IDEAL OF TRUE LOVE.**_

_Happy, extremely belated Valentine's Day, considering I began, finished, and am uploading this piece in the beginning of March._

* * *

Do you believe in true love?

If so, what is your opinion of it?

* * *

_That's a loaded question, _one Danny Fenton turns over again and again in his mind as he walks down the hall. English teachers, Danny's found, are the type most often prone to the strangest, and most clichéd writing prompts. He misses his old English teacher, even though he practically crashes into the man every day. It's a small Illinois school, and Danny's never come within a hundred miles of Chicago. A yellow slip of paper rests between his index and middle fingers, he brandishes it like a weapon when a teacher inevitably confronts him. Okay, maybe that's a little bit dramatic, but, there really, really isn't a single member of staff in Casper High who isn't familiar with his infamous, truant face. He's accustomed to being hounded at every chance. It's only because they care. "Where do you plan to go to college?" "Don't you want to graduate?" "Aren't your parents upset?"

His parents are beyond upset. For various different reasons, that knit together more intricately than they can imagine. 2003, he was a freshman. It's 2004. He's fifteen, and a sophomore. His problems have done nothing but thicken. He didn't ever expect much else from them. Honestly, he's not sure how he received enough credit last year to graduate. He guesses it was just his teachers – an assistant principal-slash-English teacher who goes by Mr. Lancer, namely – scraping the bottom of the barrel, for his sake. He wishes he had the extra time to sit down and feel touched. And guilty. He's going to completely waste their efforts. His excuse? He can't reveal.

He _can _be helpful. He _can _cheer up his teacher's day, and fight to remain on their good sides, when he isn't skipping class. Teachers' pet? This is high school. Nobody's stupid enough to mock that. Danny spies football jackets up ahead. _Well, almost nobody. _He veers to the right. He knows this school like the back of his hand. He'll take another route. He doesn't have the patience to deal with classic bully, Dash Baxter, and his gaggle of idiots, today. The fact Danny's grown taller and – bigger, during the summer, may rule in there somewhere, as well. He was fourteen, in the beginning. He's not the same guy.

Few of them are. Tucker Foley, his best friend, is the golden poster boy of every single last digitally-oriented subject in their district, when the previous year he was universally disdained for hijacking students' grades near constantly. Which, he hasn't stopped. Danny hopes Tuck' didn't learn to lie so easily from watching him. His other best friend, and girlfriend, Samantha Manson, still wears the dark, Gothic-esque clothing she has for … basically as long as he's known her. He'd technically "met" Sam in elementary, but they never really spoke until middle school. Her taste in fashion has tamed since seventh grade, that's for certain. He doesn't want her to stop with the purples and blacks, to be honest. To Danny, those colors are her staple.

Right at the moment, he's doing nothing special. Delivering a message from his homeroom teacher to another, across the opposite side of the building. It doesn't seem important, from the outside-looking-in, but it was nice seeing his teacher looking delightedly surprised, instead of horrified and shocked, after he'd rescued her a week ago from being crushed by a telephone pole Skulker uprooted.

Appreciate the little things.

* * *

Sam is thin-lipped.

"... if we mix this substance with the psychode ..."

She has no idea what a _psychode_ is. She doesn't care, "So, uh," she starts, "what does any of this has to do with Phantom? I mean, what's so special about him?" It's a dumb thing to ask. What is it about Phantom that isn't special? What is it about her _boyfriend_ that isn't special? Everything is. That's not the point. Jazz, seventeen, working, and a senior, sent her a text during her last period class, explaining the dangerous, surprisingly effective-sounding anti-ghost weapon her parents were developing. Have finished developing. Observing it now, Sam can tell it's been a long time in the making. And it's been kept _quiet_? In the Fenton home? Often, Danny ventures down to the lab – with a keen eye, perfected out of necessity and sheer experience, after nearly two years half-alive. He hasn't said a word. He didn't know. Doesn't know. His sense alerted him to yet another threat; Spectra, hovering above Casper, waiting to initiate some plan involving who knows what. He hasn't returned, though it's been half-an-hour. Dr. Penelope Spectra is a tricky one.

This is big. Sam hates it.

"Well ..." Maddie Fenton, ghost huntress extraordinaire, trails off, "... I guess you're right, sweetheart. We _are_ kind of overdoing it." Her face lights up, "We just got carried away! We have everything we need. Right, Jack?"

Jack blinks, as if awakening from a trance, "Yeah. Exactly," something in his countenance becomes relief. Sam frowns deeply. "We're … always so busy, y'know? Over that little – asshole," he catches himself suddenly, "Sorry for the language, hun." He smiles at her, apologetically. Sam shrugs, feeling disturbed. This is what Danny hears every day? He doesn't come to her? No, of course he doesn't. Hero complex. She hates that, too.

Then again, why should he come to her? She's the one perpetually complaining about her parents. He probably thinks she's selfish – except, this is Danny, and Danny never thinks that of her, at least, not that he lets show. He probably thinks she has enough issues at home. Or, maybe, he just doesn't know how to begin talking about it. She resolves to change that.

"Is everything ready?"

"Yep."

"Then, let's go."

She also resolves to stop Mr. and Mrs. Fenton from destroying their own son.

* * *

Maddie hates the Phantom. She doesn't call him Danny, she refuses. In her opinion, he shouldn't even have a name. She hates everything that has to do with him. She hates his grin when he materializes suddenly in their lab, right above her head, apologizing in a tone that offers no apology, and a Fenton weapon, two or three, plonking onto a near desk. Danny hid in his room, last time, when Jack had to shove a fist in his mouth to quit _shouting_. Maddie hadn't felt much better.

Always a step ahead. She wants to _pull her hair out_ some evenings.

She hates Phantom's white hair, constantly ruffled from some endeavor or another – he accomplishes more feats than she and her husband combined, with seemingly no less than a mere breath of effort. That's another thing. The breathing. How? Why? It is a subconscious habit? Ectoplasmic entities hardly even have _those_. There's their obsessions, and not a lot besides.

She hates Phantom, for the way his acid green eyes stray to her daughter, her _daughter_, as if Jazmine has anything to do with … with anything! Maddie hates the boys who come knocking in her daughter's direction by default, but Phantom, she _despises_. And it's a thousand times more disgusting, considering …

She cringes and tastes bile. His voice is a factor, an echoing mockery of her son's. Her little boy's, one of the three voices in the entire world she's memorized by heart, and can pick out from a crowd of a thousand different inflections and speech patterns. Jack recognizes it, too. They both have, from the very beginning. At first, it blindsided them. All they saw was a ghost. Something to hunt, and catch, and then experiment upon. Then, they got an up-close view. Got to _listen_.

Maddie doesn't think Jack is ever going to forgive him – it. Phantom. Not a he. An it.

They haven't sat down and told Danny, yet. What are they supposed to say? _"Morning, son,"_ a nonchalant swig of orange juice before school ( "Yeah, Dad? What's wrong? Mom, what's with the face?" ), _"Well, it's like this, Danno … remember the accident you had? Months and months back? It's like this ..."_ Maddie knows Jack so well by this point in their marriage, has known him this well for a long time, she can hear the pauses, the repeating, gathering his wits. Because, really, how does anyone put this? _"Your heart may have stopped beating, only for a few seconds. Those, those watts … they were bad for you, son. The portal opened, and ectoplasm got through. A ghost used you as its imprint. There, I said it."_ Oh, Jack. _"Now, it flies all across the city, day and night, doing god knows what, with your face. With your identity. We're doing the best we can, son. I swear to god, we are. I'm so sorry, Danny."_

( And then Danny would laugh, just laugh, because what the _hell_. This is too _much_. )

Danny never talks about it, being hospitalized. Under any circumstances. If anybody brings it up, anybody – Maddie would go as far as to say his friends, too, but she doesn't hear enough of their conversations to be certain – he completely closes in on himself. Looks away. Blocks it out. Maddie wishes she knew what to do. Has it already been a year? More, or less? Danny's flunking math. Algebra is his favorite subject. Or, it was. Astrophysics, rocket science, becoming an astronaut. Nobody could achieve literally reaching the stars without numbers. It's Danny's dream, even though he hasn't mentioned it since … since when?

It doesn't matter, at this very second ( it always matters ), because what she and Jack are doing is for their son's sake.

It's not a clunky machine. It's sleek, it's slender, and the rat bastard will never see it coming.

Maddie's right. Jack won't forgive. He's the quicker to anger of the pair. Maddie has helped him become a better man, throughout their marriage. He still has his moments. Until recently, there hadn't been reason for the FentonWorks patriarch to lose his temper, but Danny's accident marked a sharp change in their lives, one that came upon them without pretense. The discovery of ghosts, real, touchable and doubtless _ghosts_, had been fantastic, absolutely fantastic. The price is his son, isn't it?

Jack pictures the bags under Danny's blue eyes, imagines his haggard breathing, chest rising and falling only faintly … the Portal accident took a lot out of them all. Danny, most. His poor, poor son.

It is. Danny is the price. It is a price Jack is not willing to pay.

They – Maddie and he – contemplated shutting down the Portal. It nearly stole Danny from them, their own handiwork. There is a line between being devoted to your job, and being _too_ devoted. A dumb kids' accident? That's exactly what it was. That didn't stop it from being the single most horrible thing to ever happen to them, as parents. It was more severe than the time Jazmine fell from the monkeybars, fracturing her elbow. It was worse than the dog that tried to maul Danny as an infant, around Christmastime. It's no secret Danny's a grump during December. Jack has a feeling he knows the true reason why.

It was four months before Jack and Maddie stepped within five feet of the Portal. They're less leery of it, now, but, the thing that threw Jack off most was when Danny casually _frolicked_ into the lab last week, telling them he got some Chinese takeout for dinner, if they didn't mind. None of the Fentons can cook worth a penny, so no one blamed him ( Jack would do it, too, if he could get away with it – Maddie smacked him on the arm ). Then, when he thought nobody was looking, Danny's gaze turned to the Portal.

Jack tensed.

A side of Danny's mouth twitched. He was … laughing?

Jack was befuddled. Is befuddled. He hasn't told Maddie. Isn't sure what to say. _"Sweetheart, our traumatized son just ..."_ He'd drift off, there.

After that, the ghost attacks worsened in intensity. Phantom appeared more often than ever before. Maddie Fenton nee O'Dwyer and Jack Fenton took an oath : protect the town of Amity Part, and most importantly, their family, regardless of the cost.

So did Danny.

But, they don't know that.

* * *

"Dan?"

Danny looks up.

"Don't transmorph tonight again if you don't have to. Your parents are … really serious, about this."

Danny's fifteen years old. That doesn't postpone the swell of love in his chest. "I can't make any promises. But, thanks Sammy." He's thrilled when she doesn't sour at the nickname. They've got the rest of their lives ( half-lives ) ahead of them. He already knows who he's going to marry. Thinking too far ahead? He doesn't care. He doesn't tell her that, either. The last thing he wants is to scare her with commitment on top of everything else. "Where is everybody?"

She sighs. "Exactly where they're supposed to be, Danny. Safe and sound. Don't worry." Eye roll. He never gets tired of it. "Do you really have to keep track of _everything_?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I _do_ keep track of everything," which is the wrong thing to say, because suddenly her dark violet eyes are flashing in alarm. It's a second before he understands what he said, "Uh … well, yeah," there's no point lying. He lies to everyone, literally everyone, but her and Tuck. He wishes he could include Jazz in that list, too.

"Danny," Sam breathes, shaking her head, Danny feels the sensation of her skin against his, just a simple touch of palms, and blinks. As much as he resents the setbacks that come with being a teenager, the hormones are too hard to resist. It's not long at all before the night is lost in a blur of hands and sounds he can't believe are coming from him – or – or … Sam.

Sam.

* * *

"Did you complete your assignment, Mr. Fenton?"

"I sure did."

"Well, may I have it, then?"

"What? Uh – oh, yeah. Um. It kind of got … destroyed."

"_What_?"

"Some things went wrong this morning. In the lab. My parents think a ghost sabotaged their new invention or something."

"All … right. And _why_, pray tell, was your _homework_ doing in your parents' _laboratory_?"

"Uhh … that's a long story. I was showing my girlfriend some cool stuff, and, uh. Things kind of got … out of hand?"

"Too much information, Mr. Fenton."

( Snickering. )

"Hey, shut the hell up, back there!" ( Danny's scarier than he used to be. They obey. )

"I've spoken to your parents about this, Mr. Fenton. They can_not_, and _will_ not allow their vendetta against Phantom to get in the way of your grades. Your father explicitly told me so over the phone. I can't find it in myself to disagree with him! I can't imagine how you got in there, in the first place. Last I heard, you were forbidden from entering that lab."

"Aww, man, Teach'. Please, don't call 'em!" ( It physically pains Danny to pretend to be a moron. ) "My dad's … really pissed off." ( Was Mom starting to cry before Danny phased through the ceiling for school? He tries not to think about it. )

"Well, _Pilgrim's Progress_, Mr. Fenton. I can't imagine why!"


	2. Don't Let it Get to You

_**DON'T LET IT GET TO YOU,**_

**because it'll ****_get_**** you****_._**

* * *

_An alternate take on how I usually portray ghosts. Normally, I envision the ghosts of the "DP" world to be just like human people, with emotions, just … undead. This isn't one of those 'shots._

_This was adopted from a prompt written by __**prussianmoose **__on **tumblr**. Just search her url, same as username, if you're unfamiliar with tumblr, and then type the tag, "100 word short story," into the search bar to the right of her blog. It's the second result that will come up. Thanks so much for letting me write this, Miss Moose, even though it's very short, I hope it doesn't disappoint!_

* * *

It was my grandmother's funeral. For most people, something like this was a sad occasion. I was different. I didn't really flinch at dead things like other people. That would kind of be hypocritical of me, considering I was already dead.

That was a long story, and not a story I was very willing to mull over at the moment. I'd spent enough time trying to wrap my brain around it, and honestly, it just kind of gave me headaches. Place for everything.

Her name was Marie Groschke. She had been a little plump around the edges – where else could have my dad gotten it from? Her eyes were a deep brown, the blueness of mine was inherited from my grandfather, Peter's, side. She was meek and quiet in personality, and, well, my father wasn't. I have no idea where Jack Fenton got his endless bluster. Grandpa Pete was thoughtful and punctual, in a manner that reminded me a lot of Vlad Masters, if he hadn't let his own desires get a hold of him.

"Oh dear, it's been a very wonderful ceremony," Her lips formed the words, wrinkling in a new and more grotesque way with each vowel, "You looked absolutely lovely." Her eyes flickered, glazed over with time and experience. The creak of her eyelids was audible. It disturbed me, considerably, to see the old woman I'd adored so much like that. But, she was still herself. I could see it, underneath the veil of death. It was one thing to confront a ghost, fully formed and functioning. It was another to witness one forming.

"Thank you."

I suspected she tried to hum – she failed, and gave up on it, as if it had never happened. I smiled a bit at that. For a lady so insecure in other ways, when she was comfortable, she recovered from mistakes with ease. "Oh yes, it was an honor to be part of it all, a real thrill." Her breath smelled of age and chemicals. Time had scratched her mind, she repeated herself like a decrepit broken record. Ghosts rarely completely understood that they weren't alive, anymore.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, ma'am, it was all for you." And with that I closed the coffin lid.

The room was empty. I heard footsteps. Sam and Tucker approached from behind, "What's the deal?" Tuck began.

I calculated, "Less than five hours. We've got plenty of time to prepare." I started barking orders. By midnight, the last remnants of my grandma would be gone. I wondered what her obsession would be. Sentimentality was no longer an option. I'd said my goodbyes. My best friends left me for a moment, to give me some space. I hadn't even needed to look at them. We'd been doing this for awhile.

When the moment came, we'd do as we'd taught ourselves. Duty called.


	3. Tuesday's Worse

_**TUESDAY'S WORSE.**_

* * *

_The only thing worse than a Monday is the moment when you realize you still have the rest of the week to go._

_( Based on my own school experience. I am sixteen, and a sophomore. )_

* * *

If there's anything in particular, hand-picked from all the hateful, spiteful little details of day-to-day occurrences William C. Lancer dislikes most, it's Monday. He's a schoolteacher, and common belief dictates that people in his line of profession love the start of a new week, because it means that they get new chances to – well, teach. It's a misconception. Teachers do not, in fact, possess very much affection when they see the prefix _Mon _placed before _-day_, and they rarely get a large amount of teaching done, either. It's the twenty-first century, and honestly, important things hardly ever get done in general.

Or maybe Will just didn't wake up on the right side of bed, this morning. This has been a distraught Monday, that's it. No amazing breakthroughs or big changes from the truants, as usual. He hadn't quite expected them to surprise him. He hasn't always thought so cynically. There was a time when William was as bright-eyed and eager to educate as the rest of his colleagues. He also had a great deal more hair, then, he muses, sensing air from the conditioning vents of his office chilling the top of his sparse scalp. Optimism seemed like a given. He recalls laughter, sometimes following the unexpected wit of his normally quieter pupils. _It's always the quiet ones! _he cried, to squeaking giggles.

He recalls the emotional sit-downs, when something was going terribly wrong at home, and nice Mr. Lancer was the last reliable adult left to confide in. He cherishes those memories. The hot tears tug at his heart, even now, so many years afterward. He began in the businesses, as it were, teaching elementary.

He moved up to sixth graders, for a while, just to test it. It was through this that William Lancer discovered that middle-schoolers were extremely hazardous to his health ; children, caught somewhere _hellish_, in the gap between the ages of preteen _insanity_, and actual teenaged despair. At a point, he received an offer to take an empty spot in a nearby senior high. He qualified to be an A.P., Assistant Principal. It paid, and does pay, considerably more than the average teacher's job, though he isn't so pompous to feel smug for it. He'd believed, naively, that high-schoolers had to be better.

Biggest mistake. Biggest … disappointment.

Teens are abominable. In key ways, golden apples prove their worth, showing themselves to be likely candidates for scholarships as early as ninth grade. Responsibility! Respect! Alright, so perhaps they aren't that enthusiastic, but it's wonderfully close enough for Lancer's tastes. On the other cheek.

High-schoolers are too immature to realize impregnating their girlfriends might not be such a good idea. High-schoolers are too immature to suggest condoms to their boyfriends. Too mature to have a meaningful discussion with their jaded English teacher, that shit's for helpless kids. Too mature, to _not_ figure out when to sneak their cellphone behind the asshole teacher's back.

Too this. Too that.

Danny Fenton was one of Will's sixth graders, in the midst of that single, fateful, disillusioning middle-school year. He was one of those golden apples, and he wasn't even out of junior high. Blown away by the boy's affinity for rocket science, quasars, and outer space overall, Lancer became close to the child, invited to dinner by his mother and father, the kind, yet eccentric Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, several instances. It was fun, and seemingly the sole light in the utter confusion that had been the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. In the present, Will supposes he has nobody but himself to blame. He hadn't prepared himself for the shock his higher-ups in fourth grade warned him about.

Years later, that same boy who'd so impressed him in the past reappeared, taller, and infinitely more promising. A freshman, fourteen. Lancer looked forward to getting to know young Mr. Fenton, again. It wasn't to be. Hardly three months in to the semester, Danny was pulled from school for over a month. Upon Danny's return, William was horrified to learn his star pupil had suffered a massive bout of electrocution. He'd known his parents were inventors. This never occurred to him. Jack and Madeline struck him as such caring, attentive people …

He held off judgment. He didn't know this family, acquainted though he was. Things might have changed since. They might not have changed at all. The didn't need some nosy teacher poking into their lives. For weeks, maybe too long, William left Danny Fenton alone. Did the electric shocks unhinge something in the poor young man's brain? He's seriously beginning to contemplate the possibility.

He should've stepped in, sooner, he thinks, peering at Daniel's horrendously spotty attendance page. His eyes are starting to ache, vaguely. He strongly suspects he's going to need glasses in the future, before he's fifty. Danny hasn't been to any periods this Monday. Lord knows where he is. Absent students are terrifying. They could be at home, playing hooky. They could be on campus, skipping. They can be kidnapped. No one would ever know until they don't come back home later that afternoon.

Lancer buries his face in his hands. He ponders how everything has snowballed like it has.


	4. Not the Fairy Godmother

_**NOT THE FAIRY GODMOTHER.**_

_For the record, I actually have no idea how someone becomes a godparent. I winged it._

* * *

God, Caroline doesn't want to be _part_ of this family.

But, they want her to. Their hearts will break if she cut herself off _entirely_ from them. Caroline admits, she's a very selfish woman. She does have a conscience. The hot, cascading tears of _bewilderment_ that would follow disowning herself are just – too agonizing to think about. Her mother, Marie, is admirable. She's overweight, but fights it, vehemently. Her dad, Pete, doesn't want her to. Fuck him. He's an idiot, anyway. A real lady should do whatever it takes to be beautiful. If Mom ends up in rehab, again, well, that's just a side-effect. She'll get over it.

Maybe that's part of why Caroline hates her sister-in-law? Madeline O'Dwyer. What a bitch. Doesn't even put effort into looking pretty. How does she stay thin, when Caroline has to take diet after diet? Maddie doesn't know what it feels like to be stuck in a family of crazies. Madeline is the recently wedded wife of Caroline's younger brother, Jack. She doesn't like Caroline. So, what, Jack busted out crying last time Caroline yelled at him? He's an ugly, fat, unsociable slob. He's fixated on an insane concept Caroline won't even deign to name. One of his best friends almost _died_ because of him, less than two years ago! Caroline might have liked Maddie, otherwise, if she hadn't apparently lost her mind and married – _Jack_.

What does she _see_ in that jackass?

Caroline's already married, anyway. Cristian Loeb is a better man than any of the men in her family. He'll take good care of her, and their children.

* * *

They've had four divorce scares.

Caroline is collapsing in relief that it hasn't ended badly – Cris just went out to a hotel, this time – and their son and daughter, Paige and Joey, are at school. The ruckus has died down. She checks the mail.

It's a document, from her brother, and Maddie. They want permission to make Caroline their newborn son's legal godmother. Obviously, this is Jack's idea, and Maddie went along with it to console him.

She snorts.

Then, feels guilty.

* * *

It's Danny's tenth birthday. He's super-excited to meet his aunt for the first time! What's a godmother?

_Oh, sweetie, that just means that if something bad ever happens to your father and I, she'll be the one who takes care of you._ Maddie's smile is tight as she says this. Danny's eyes go very wide. They're blue, not grayish like Jack's, but a bright sky blue. Caroline's strikingly reminded of Pete.

"But, I don't want anything bad to happen to you!"

"No, of course not, sweetheart, that's not what I meant."

It's what she meant. Maddie hasn't made eye-contact with Carol her entire visit.

* * *

Jazz shudders, observing the body language of her aunt. She is perturbed, because she can see a distinct parallel. She might feel a little resentful of her dad's flaws, sometimes, but at least she still _loves_ him. She doesn't let her desire for normalcy get in the way of her own happiness, nor her loved ones'. She vows never to become like her aunt Carol.


	5. Put On Some Shoes, Bro

_**PUT ON SOME SHOES, BRO.**_

* * *

_So I saw a post on __**ectolime's tumblr**__ ( originally by __**pawprintsandsnowflakes**__ ) concerning the fact that Jack Frost has presumably been barefoot all his immortal life, and wouldn't know the first thing to do if ever forced to consider footwear. It was also accompanied by a gif of a cat walking around uncomfortably flicking its paws due to the baby-booties on its feet. Jack's face was pasted on it._

_I could not ignore._

"_Danny Phantom" & "Rise of the Guardians" © Dreamworks crossover, gogogogo._

_Just saying, I haven't actually seen the film, yet. Some details may be off._

* * *

"I think you'll need shoes for this, man."

"Shoes?"

Jack stops his train of thought. He's stuck around in this town a little longer than usual, mostly because this kid, Danny, reminds Jack of himself in a lot of ways. But, the guy and his friends really seem to need some help. He's intrigued, neither of the girls, Sam and Jazz, can see him. They're too old in the mind. Danny and Tucker can, they can see him clear as day. Even more shocking, the girls _believe_ them when they say there's a white-haired dude with a wooden staff hanging around them who they can't see.

Danny's sister is sixteen. The others are fourteen. Jack normally gets twelve-year-olds and under. Thirteens are scarce. He likes it. "What for?"

"Well, Tuck' stepped in some fresh ectoplasm, once. He doesn't ever wear socks, y'know? It burnt his feet. Bad. I dunno if your ice might cancel it out or anything, mine doesn't, just ..." Rambling childishness. Jack's gonna miss this kid when he leaves. Because he _will_ leave. In a week?

He feels reluctant?

No, that's impossible. Jack's never stayed in one place. Ever. "Yeah, sure, why not? Can't remember the last time I even put on some _sandals_. You learn new things every day, right?" On the inside, he's grimacing. He's always hated the way the fabric rubbed against his skin. He developed sores. Granted, that was centuries ago, and the quality of clothing in general has improved vastly. Hoodies are his favorite.

Oh, geez.

* * *

Danny wasn't kidding. The Box Ghost _is_ annoying.

"I am the Master of All Things Cardboard and Square! And – … why do you keep bouncing around like that?"

Jack makes a face.


	6. I Don't Think We Can be Lenient, Anymore

**_"MADDIEKINS, I DON'T THINK WE CAN BE LENIENT, ANYMORE."_**

* * *

Danny was absent for half of his class periods, today. It's Friday. He's a little relieved, there's no school on Monday due to some holiday he can't be bothered to remember, so it's a three-day-weekend. Usually, this called for far more celebration and fanfare, for sarcastic hallelujahs and whooping fists in the air, but his parents are hellbent on ruining this for him, and his friends. He sees why. He understands why. He's just … too exhausted, to humor their punishments right now.

"We're not mad at you two." Jack informs Sam and Tucker. "I think you should go home." Tucker is chagrined – he doesn't want to leave Danny doomed to a fate of what is sure to be a hellacious break from school, especially not after Danny swept him off of his feet a mere few moments ago, clearly out of the path of a flying, crushed motorvehicle. Klemper threw one of his stressed-out fits, again. Danny offered icecream, then sucked him into the Fenton thermos. They knew Klemper would forgive; he always does.

Tucker is the techhunter who diffuses the tension, Danny's the diplomatic physical powerhouse, but Samantha Mansion is their pragmatically-inclined confidante. She knows when to back away when they don't. So, they depart, the front door of FentonWorks clicking gently behind them. It begins. Maddie goes first.

"Don't you ever think at all?!"

He tries not to think very often.

"Answer me! Don't just look at me," oh, she's furious. Danny feels the old twang of childish fear at his mother's anger, but he's fourteen, and he's saved the world more times than she's given birth. Hell, that's the harshest thought Danny's ever had. No, he _definitely_ thinks, he wants to tell her, but you don't want to know what I think about, Mom.


	7. I'm Just Picking Somewhere Closer

_**"DANNY? DON'T WORRY. I'M JUST PICKING SOMEWHERE CLOSER."**_

* * *

Jazmine deserves Harvard. She deserves it more deeply than anyone else in the world. In the worlds, period. Danny sits there, on the edge of his bed, on the edge of his tolerance. She's sacrificing her future, for him. He's already sacrificed his future. She's not listening to him. Whatsoever. God, he'll never strike a loved one, but she needs a knock from reality. Daniel Fenton is not ever attending college, not even community. Jazz is. She doesn't really want to deny herself it. He can see it in her eyes. But, he can also see that she'd made up her mind.

Danny broke Freakshow's mindcontrol. He can break her decision.


	8. Illinoy

**_ILLINOY._**

* * *

Amity Park, northern Illinois. Next to the snootier parts of Wisconsin. Danielle huffs laughter through her nose. This place is as American as it's going to get. She's been to Warsaw, Dar es Salaam, Seoul, Kalemie, and a thousand other marshes and steppes no one will recognize if she states them aloud. She speaks with confusing inflections, sometimes. She's heard so many languages, she forgets which one is her main. Danny, though.

He has an Illinois accent. It baffles him, it's hilarious to watch. One second, he has a perfectly flat, standard American pattern, and then, bam! _"Hey, guys, did you hear about that thing that happened in Chicawgoh_ _– whoa, what the hell?!"_


	9. Wood

_**WOOD.**_

* * *

This is mildly horrifying.

Danny says _mildly_, because, fortunately, no one's around to see it. He has no idea where it _comes_ from, he just wakes up some morning and … there it freaking is. Other boys his age would shrug and take care of it. For some reason, he doesn't think he has that privilege. It's insane, and it's probably just him imposing too many rules on himself. Jazz says so. Then again, she's not aware exactly how far those self-restrictions go. If he acted like a common lecher, like every other teenage guy, he'd never look at himself the same way. He ignores it and waits for it to wear off.


	10. Stereotypical Accepting Father

_**STEREOTYPICAL ACCEPTING FATHER.**_

* * *

Decades and decades after the Disasteroid, Dan settles onto a kitchen chair in a remodeled FentonWorks. The whole house is still fundamentally the same, neither he nor Jazz could bear altering it too badly. He's looking through the mail. There's special people with the specific job of sifting through the letters they receive, most of all, the anonymous ones, because who knows what sick things some random fanatic sent them. He gave them the day off, not for the first time.

He stops at a letter in particular. _What's it like, o Savior, to have a son that's more of a daughter than a son?_

He's very collected.

Dan S. Fenton-Phantom and Sam E. Manson have four children in total. Victor, Damian, William and Lilith. Damian is the second-born, he has Sam's violet eyes and Dan's pitch black hair. He also has Sam's spooky tendencies, Dan's pretty certain he saw a purposeless keychain hanging around the teen's waist when he left for junior high earlier. Victor is … a complicated story. Dan won't confirm anything just yet, but maybe, Vlad Masters had a few infant clones of himself, hidden in his lab, disturbing as it sounds. It _was_ disturbing. The disgust lasted only a minute – Sam and his first child was stillborn. They don't talk about it. If Dan stole the single fully-functioning clone, well, it's a family secret. Victor keeps asking why his nose is bigger than either of his parents'.

They'll answer, someday.

This letter isn't referring to Vl – Vic'. It can't be mentioning Lilith, either, because she's only four, greenish-eyed, freckled and redheaded, and mindfully kept out of the press' leering gaze. It's talking about William. Billy. William was named after a certain A.P., who had a large influences in Dan's, Sam's, and their best friend Tucker's early lives. This person is talking about Billy, and his rapidly questionable … preferences. Dan hates calling it that, for god's sakes, Billy's the third youngest. Billy likes bright colors. He likes frilly outfits. He has his mother's form, and her biological striking blonde hair, which she's permanently dyed a shinier black than even her husband's, since the _microsecond_ her conservative parents would allow her to. He knows his wife, and bets she started a little bit sooner than that.

Billy's eyes are Dan's – Danny's – blue, sheer blue, and it all adds together into an obvious stereotype. Billy is too young to understand. In contrast, Dan is too _old_ to understand why these bastards keep sending him these … letters. He has a better word for them. He has too much class to use it.

He writes back, because the sender was dumb enough to give an address, _My son is my son. No thank you, for your opinion._


	11. How Film Noiresque

_**HOW FILM **__**NOIRESQUE.**_

* * *

How depressing. Vlad sets his mug upon the tabletop.

A crime scene. The Foley boy has gone missing.

What now, then? What brilliant ploys will be unleashed? Ha, none! Policemen are inefficient idiots. That's one thing Vladmir Sabastian Masters-Plasmius has learnt in his half-lifetime, never trust a law figure. They only operate by the logic of any sane human being. And, as anyone within his circle of – acquaintances, would know, sane people aren't sane.

Daniel agrees with him, on that account. He won't ever admit it. He does. The hatred ignited during the Circus Gothica fiasco, the officers chasing him, with every intent to gun him down. Vlad snorts; no bullet can down a specter. Daniel may not have been himself, but, it left an impression in his little adolescent mind. _Don't trust the police._

Daniel is a teen, and yet, his success-rate is a thousand times more reliable than any investigator. The head of DALV, co. experiences a swell of pride. Tuckard "Tucker" Foley will be returned home safely in less than a week, tops.


	12. Vampiric

_**VAMPIRIC.**_

* * *

_"Are you curious about the first halfa transmorph, Mr. Fenton-Phantom? I know you are. Then again, I know everything. That's why you came to me. Well, to be short, Mr. Masters-Plasmius did not observe his first transmorph with the measure of awe you did."_ – Clockwork, Master of Time.

* * *

The dark rings materialize, and split, slowly.

Vladdy spies a glimpse of himself in a mirror, and _screams_. His face! What happened to his _face_?!

Blueness creeps along the lines of his face, lines he's not supposed to have, he's in his _twenties_. His eyes are a strange, solid pinkish color ( he doesn't know it, now, but the more time which passes, the more they will mature, into an unblinking crimson ). The boils slip from his mind, and fingers, pointed fingers, rush up to touch his cheeks. It's a mistake. He _screams_. The clawed ends of his digits burst a few boils.


	13. September 23rd, 1991

**_NOVEMBER 23_****_rd_****_, 1991._**

* * *

_Everything is quiet. My wife is – blessedly – quiet, after her long hours of labor. The doctors prescribed epidural – she demanded it – but I think her throat is still going to be a little sore. My poor, beautiful, strong Maddie. Our new baby looks so small in her arms._

_Our Daniel._

_Jazmine, our daughter, was absolutely insistent on holding her brother herself. Reminds me of her mother. She's two, but so gentle. That is nothing like me. I'm Jack Fenton, I am a klutz by definition. She didn't hold him all on her own, of course. I helped her. She may be precocious, touching down on all her milestones early, and so, so precious, but she only weighs over twenty pounds._

_She's also prone to throwing tantrums when her buildings blocks tumble. She puts so much effort into those things. It breaks my heart every time, she hates seeing her hard work go to waste. I have a feeling she got that from both of us, Maddie and I. We're scientists by profession, education, and passion. We lose our heads a bit ourselves if something we're doing goes awry. Experiments are extremely delicate procedures, the slightest miscalculation and biased observation sends it crashing to the floor. It's not the most calming experience, especially when it's a project you've been building on since you were fresh to the job._

_I'm not gonna digress, though._

_My girls are finally fast asleep after everything. I'm amazed Maddie could talk. If there's one thing I've learned today – tonight, really, Daniel crowned at eight p.m, seemingly on the dot – it's that my wife and youngest apple of my eye have some seriously healthy lungs._

_That's good. That's fantastic. That's ..._

_Whoa, doggie! I dozed off for a second there! Sorry 'bout that!_

_Anyway, what was I yapping for? Oh, yeah! My family. My awesome, smartypants family of ... awesomeness! That's it!_

_I ...! I ... I just, I'm excited and awed beyond words. And trust me, I usually have a lot of words. Case you couldn't tell._

_I can't believe I've been bestowed the honor of becoming a father for the second time. I can't believe this is going to be the rest of my life from now on. Except, I can believe it. I can see it._

_I can't wait._


	14. Cellular Technology of Yesteryear

_**ANCIENT CELLULAR TECHNOLOGY OF YESTERYEAR.**_

_Pre-Fenton Ghost Portal accident._

* * *

The first thought that came to the minds of most people when they heard the word _Illinois_ was, oh, Chicago! The second thought was, wait, how the hell is that even pronounced? I thought it was Illi-noise, not Illi-noy! Crap! My whole life has been a lie!

It was pronounced Illi-noy, by the way.

Danny Fenton did not live in Chicago. He'd never step foot in a large city throughout his entire thirteen – fourteen – years of life. Actually, he had, twice, but he was young back then and hardly remembered any of it. Just faded images of looming skyscrapers, honking cars, and lots, lots of crowding people. He was pretty sure no one could blame him if he said he kind of preferred his hometown of Amity Park over some place like that.

On the other hand, there were tons of things he disliked about Amity Park. The lack of keeping up with the times, for one. It was 2002, and he, for a fact, knew that he was one of six teenagers in his entire middle school who had a Deadjournal. How did he do that? With a survey. "Survey says," he muttered, bemused, tapping his stack of papers against his desk to even it, "this town is _prehistoric_."

"Well, duh!" His best friend, Samantha E. Manson chimed in from across the room. She shoved the classroom door open with her foot. "I've been saying that for, like, ever." She was on the short side, pale and Jewish. The fact she wore a thigh-high skirt revealed nothing, due to wearing knee-length black shorts underneath them. Gothic fashion was weird. On top of that, she had too much dignity to go around giving out panty-shots. She said so. Repeatedly.

"Saying such would imply you've been around for, like, ever." His other best friend, Tuckard Foley pointed out, just to annoy her. His high-pitched, youthful voice cracked. Puberty was a bitch. He was dark-skinned and green-eyed, absolutely hyper-intelligent, and, unfortunately, girl-crazed. Sam called it a shame, anyway. Like basically everything else Tuckard – or Tucker, as he liked to go by, instead – ever did.

Sam sent Tucker the nastiest glare. Danny swallowed a warning whistle. Tuck understood the grave he dug.

"Shut up, Tucker."

Danny was skilled at diffusing conflict between these two, not so much because they couldn't keep going back and forth til sundown, and they sure as hell could, but because it was generally accepted in their little circle that Danny usually had a clear point, "Anyway! Can you believe it? There's no way these things aren't gonna become all the rage in the future, but nobody at this school has one!" He held his fancy Nokia mobile phone for the both of them to inspect.

"Dude, you do," Tucker corrected. Danny could see why Sam so easily became incensed by his mere presence. For that reason, he grinned, "Yeah, but my family's kinda well-off. And so's yours," Danny emphasized his claim via poking at the screen of his friend's PDA, an extremely advanced piece of machinery, with a _touchscreen_. Well, sort of. A pen was needed, but it was still one incredible invention, cooler than any old – recently innovated – cellphone. Chances were, at the rate companies operated, Danny's phone was going to go out of style pretty quick. Tucker's PDA, though, would take a while to replace with anything that wasn't some cheap knock-off.


	15. Aftereffects

**_AFTEREFFECTS_**.

* * *

_Skulker's true name © celeste angela pichowsky, me._

* * *

Fantastic. The ceiling's going to cave in on her. Where's her boyfriend when she needs him? Ember swings her guitar – and Phantom goes flying. Then, he _really_ flies, catching himself midair … and lunging for her. She's gotta admit, the kid's less of a rookie, but it's not an admittance she will reveal, under pain of destruction. Destruction, because she can't really call it a second death. That'd be kinda freaky. Hah! Freaky.

Her unnaturally tinted fingers trace the engraving of of an old, defunct name, _Amber McLain_, along the sides of her guitar handle, and is relieved the Phantom halfa never seems to notice it. He could look her up, then, and find out … something. She's sure a weakness would be found, somehow.

Probably firesmoke.

Dive. Kick. Pummel. What a dipstick. As if she'd allow him to have the upper hand on her – shit, there's the thermos. The universally dreaded Fentoni invention. Fantone? Whatever the hell the kid's last name is in human form. No one could honestly expect her to memorize it. Pieces of ceiling fall and bump her head. She curses. This isn't the first time a building has tried crushing her; it's not gonna work this time. Phantom grins. She's sucked in, and hours later, she's endlessly bitching to her boyfriend, because she _can_.

"I get it," Nathaniel Stulter – Skulker, as he goes by afterdeath – bemoans, "You hate the dipstick. So do I, in case you've forgotten." A tiny microphone transforms his actual, squeaky voice into the deep, metallic tones she loves to hear. She used to make fun of him for it, until he told her why. He was a paraplegic in Life. He always felt so miniscule and useless. He took up hunting as a hobby, to ease the helplessness. The muscle deteriorating disease achieved its inevitable toll before he was twenty-six. The suit? The suit was a blessing. Yeah, sure, a jerk like Plasmius had constructed it. That doesn't matter. It _exists_.

"Yeah, well," Ember snips, "I hate him _more_. He crashed my concert, did I tell you that?"

"How many times?"


	16. Simplicity, At Its Finest

_**SIMPLICITY, AT ITS FINEST.**_

* * *

"Listen, Mrs. Fenton! I know you _really_ don't like me, but, if we're gonna get Jack back!" Maddie reels. She hadn't even known that Jack was _gone_. "You're gonna hafta _work_ with me –"

Phantom's unconscious. The Boo-Merang chose the most unfortunate moment to make itself known.

Madeline Fenton is beside herself.

_Where_ is her _husband_?

He was there, a few hours ago. At home. With her.

Where …

She blacks out.

* * *

She's in a hospital bed. She's so reminded of the time Danny was hospitalized after being almost electrocuted to death by the Ghost Portal, her eyes begin to water despite herself. Her son is beside her in a moment. "Mom?" He sounds alarmed. She can't blame him. She smothers her emotion.

"Geez, Mom," Danny repeats himself, "Geez. Fuck. Hell." Her eyes widen. She's never heard him curse like this. "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. Not knowing half of –" He snorts suddenly, bitterly, "– the things that're goin' on around you is _killing_ you and Dad. I know it is. Shit. _Fuck_. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to make things change, everything just happened and I never had a choice in it, and now that I have I choice – now –" He's stammering. "I don't know what to _do_ with it!" He looks so pained, and she has no idea what he's talking about, but she still hugs his neck, "I don't know what to do with _you_ _two_." The last two words come out with such force that she's taken aback. It's as if he's been dwelling on this, whatever it is, for a very long time.

"Jack's okay, Mom." Danny tells her, once he's regained himself.

Maddie stares at him.

"He's in the next room over. His head just got knocked a little bit. He wanted to see you, earlier, but then he went back to sleep, again. He needed it. It was just a ghost attack," he continues, "A – a stupid one. I should've been paying attention. I got lazy. And _stupid_. I just … ugh! I'm sorry, Mom! _So_ sorry." He catches her look. "What? What's wrong?"

Maddie blinks, slowly, twice. "What … did you call your father?"

He's confused for all but a second, and then it hits him like –

Like a Boo-Merang.

"Uhhh," he seems so desolate. "I called him, uhh." He sits down. His legs are weak. "I called him Jack. Jack, because Jack Fenton is my dad. Same thing." His expression is bordering on desperation.

Maddie hasn't broken her stare.

Danny holds his head in his hands. Of all the possible ways to accidentally reveal the truth …

It had to be so simple.


	17. Prolonged Wait

_**PROLONGED WAIT.**_

* * *

Well, frig.

Danielle's sufficiently dismayed. She wasn't anticipating this. After such an agonizing wait, of lying on her bed counting down the hours, and then the minutes, and when she got _really_ bored, she kept up with the seconds – _and Doom IV has been delayed for two more months?!_ Jesus _Christ_! On a _candlestick_! Of all the things passed over from Danny, his love of videogaming is sure as heck one of 'em, and now it's just coming back and biting her in the behind. Frig, frig, frigola Coca-Cola.

Man!

Ain't _fair_.

If she's done whining – which she _thinks_ she is – she spends a few more minutes staring longingly into the GameStop window, only stopping when her breath begins fogging up the glass. Ew. Suddenly grumpy, she leans against the window, arms crossed fitfully, knowing it will have to be two more months before she has something new to distract her _those_ thoughts. She can stand replaying the last two games again in the meantime …

The videogaming is one of the few traits which she shares with Danny that she doesn't actively try to suppress, and replace with something else. Something new, and – _un-Danny_, something that is completely her own. She hasn't really told anyone about her efforts, yet. "Anyone," basically meaning a small handful of people who won't send her to a psychiatrist for thinking cloning is a real scientific advancement, especially when it is has been officially declared _illegal_ in the case that it ever becomes achievable – which it already has, in some half-human psycho's dungeon – and now that Danielle thinks about it, that's what it _was_, a true rich jerk's castle _dungeon_, and, agh. There's no one to talk to that won't think she's crazy.

How do you explain to someone that your biggest, _rational_ fear, is literally _not being able _to be your own person?

Because you _aren't_?

Well … being _female_ is a start …

... and yesterday, she was proud of herself for being able to stomach one of Danny's least favorite foods without feeling anything. He's fourteen, though. She's twelve. Taste buds change and outgrow old preferences with time. She guesses she can only wait and see how much of an individual she really is. The wait will be agonizing, she's sure, and she's also sure that her friends would call her paranoid. She's not paranoid. She isn't! She just understands that there exists a fine line between identical and fraternal twins, and it's a line that she must keep an eye on.


	18. Requiem For a Tower

_**REQUIEM FOR A TOWER.**_

* * *

The seemingly effortless manner in which the members of the Fenton family interact with one another is widely envied by most. Three out of every five children these days have divorced parents, inter-familial squabbling, and just general discontent, upon mountains and mountains of touchy subjects that kid is never, ever going to willingly bring up unless someone asks, even then, probably not. Tucker Foley sighs a little, physically feeling the lack of tension within FentonWorks. If he likes to make up excuses to visit, instead of staying home listening to his Mama and Pop argue endlessly over finances ( and what about you, Tuckard D'Shon Foley? We work our asses off trying to pay for your expensive gadgets – ) ... Sam? Everyone knows about Sam, and her parents, whether they want to or otherwise. It isn't as if she goes around screaming it … except, on the particularly worse days, she does.

Jazz felt guilty, in the beginning, leafing through so many terrible mental disorders and dysfunctions, each and every one of which are usually caused by the victims' families. She didn't realize her naivety, her peace, her sheer _fortune_ of being born to a mother and father who actually took the time and care to figure out if they got along well enough to consider children. To consider dating. Marriage. People marry too quick, statistics claim. The statistics are right. Now, living in the same tranquil home she has lived in her entire sixteen years of life, she's come to terms with the glaring gap between she and her patients, her patients who sneer and huff when she tells tales of her – perfect, wonderful – childhood. There's never been any threats of being separated from a parent, or … anything, really.

There was the Arkansas scare, that one time. That had just turned out to be Danny overreacting. Maddie never intended divorce, will never dream of it. She wanted to get away for awhile. That's all. Take a breather. That's the woman she is. She needs breaks now and again. Why? Jazz isn't sure how to broach the subject, so, she keeps it to herself, but.

Maddie Fenton compartmentalizes. She compartmentalizes a _lot_. That isn't like Jack. Jack is creativity and nonsense spun in an odd fashion, that, inexplicably, impossibly, makes sense in context. Occasionally, out of context. He can get down to the formulaic equations, and the arithmetic and a thousand other things Jazmine Adenine Fenton doesn't understand, if he wants to. She inherits his social awkwardness. She solves everyone else's problems, but her own. Oh, well. Left to her devices, with little to no motivation, she is about as useful as a bump on a log. She knows this. Accepts it. It's why she doesn't really have any lasting friends. Come to think of it, neither does Jack. No close friends, everyone that isn't already there in the framework ( Mads, Danno, V-Man, Jazzerincess, Pa and Ma Fenton, Auntie Carol … ) is kept at arms' length. Why should he bother with anybody else? He boasts! He's got all he needs! Is he lonely? Perhaps, brief flashes in the night, wondering what he's missing … then, Maddie curls in closer to him, and he wonders what stupid thought even came over him.

Jazz feels _almost_ the same. She tries. She does. It's just … it's hard not to care what everyone else thinks of you, when your passion specifically involves dealing with those people. If she had a choice, she'd only spend time with her little brother and _his_ friends ( rapidly becoming hers, as well ) for the remainder of her days. She's honest, she's a recluse, at heart. Furiously, she works to break that shell. Is it fruitful?

… Is it?

There's no strain. There's no holding back. Everyone comprehends each other, and their differences, even the subtle ones. At least, until they begin interfering with the grades … her sympathy for her younger brother rises all over again, as it often does, when she's left to her own devices. Useless as a bump on a log. What can she do? She's dried up all her excuses for him. Jack and Maddie are unique parents; they take their childrens' opinions in account before making certain decisions, unlike the average parent who just does as they please, because they know their kid doesn't know jack shit. Jazz doesn't like to curse, but, she can't quite find two words that fit better for … the ignorance.

Jazmine and Daniel were considerate children from the start. Jazmine, helpful and a bookworm, only throwing tantrums when something legitimately upset her. She has her father's temper – a temper her mother has spent years taming before her birth. Jazmine experienced no unsavory examples of behavior growing up, Jack and Madeline made damn ( _darn_, dear, don't cuss ) sure of that. She could, and can, be counted on to be responsible and smart. Why not? She had no reason to feel resentment for her parents, besides the strangeness of the ecto-studies. They never caused harm, never missing the chance to sit their offspring on the sofa and inform them exactly why they cannot enter the basement lab without explicit supervision by one, or both, of them. The teenage rebellion manifests in its own ways, but it's nothing so horrific as some of the things she's heard of, has witnessed, just strolling down the hall to her next class on a good morning.

Uncannily wise for a youthful girl, Jazmine didn't break a rule, once, unless by honest mistake. Jack is, technically, the gruffer of the two, that much is obvious, but he trusts the judgment of his wife, and can recognize a serious mistake if there truly is one. Together, husband and wife explain things in length if they can. They want their babies to be knowledgeable. Skillful raising, or just plain luck at apparently finding their flawless soulmate. Who knows. Bad things do happen – they're solved, in quick order. It sounds so clinical, put that way, Jazz muses, but it's not. They love. They share inside jokes. Petnames. They have a history. Jack Fenton and Maddie O'Dwyer are meant to be, and that is that. Jazz dislikes dwelling on the odds of such a match for too long, she's learnt to take it as is. The last thing she wants is to shatter the bubble.

There are no worries in this house.

That is a lie.

A fantastic, engulfing, overblown _lie_.

Madeline nee O'Dwyer and Danny Fenton share the same useful trait-slash-fatal flaw. Compartmentalization. Jack breathes in everything as they come, but, Maddie, she processes the data and stores it away for a later period. A rainy evening. Files, categorized.

The result in inevitable for any brain, regardless how inclined it may be towards this tendency. It becomes confused. This morning, Maddie paused in her frying of scrambled eggs. She'd reached for the ghost – ghost, thinks Jazz – of a surgical knife, perpetually off to the side when she experimented … except, she wasn't experimenting. She was cooking. She was being a mother. Not a scientist. Not a huntress. Two lives, the darker qualities of each brickwalled from the other's, with equal deliberation and respect given. In a blink, she corrected herself.

Seconds beforehand, Danny flinched when Jack said the word, _molecule_.

Then, he glanced at his hands, instinctual. There were no gloves.

He eased.

Danny is a quiet, secretive son, a skipping, neglectful student, a reliable, open best friend, a witty, self-sacrificing hero, an annoying little brother … these are all roles, to him. They're all genuine. They're just _modes_. They can be switched on and off, and replaced with another. They can't be, she tries to say, but he's adamant that that's not what the heck he's doing, _I know you care, Jazz, but can't you just let it lie? I mean …_

She thinks she understands.

Why disrupt something that's working?

Except it's not going to _keep_ working. Not forever.

"Jazmine," Maddie calls from the stairway. Jazz answers, "Yeah?"

"Have you seen your brother today?"

"No, Mom. His scooter's gone. I think he needed some fresh air."

Her mother's jaw sets. "He's _grounded_."

Oh. Right. Danny must've forgotten, and then taken his scooter – stashing it somewhere, on the roof, maybe, wherever no one will look for it, at best for a few hours – as a kind of visible excuse for his absence. It's hard, to remember details of a hundred lives being lived simultaneously.

Danny's compartmentalization is arguably more severe than Maddie's.

Jazz has a feeling; she's going to walk in on Danny, someday soon, curled up in a tense ball on his bed … muttering, "Sam said she needs to talk to me tomorrow … Skulker made a threat or seven again, gotta prepare for it … did I forget something …"

And she'll say, "Danny, listen to me. I love you. You are not a million faces in a single body." Neither is Mom. Though they try.

You've got to give them credit : their resilience is akin to building blocks, falling down when they're finally too top-heavy, then piled back up, in the shape of a looming tower with billions of windows.


	19. The Ultimate Irony

_**THE ULTIMATE IRONY.**_

* * *

_~oakleafninja32 on deviantART drew a cover for this chapter, titled, "Brother's Keeper." It's cute! Not quite matching the tone of the fic, but that's okay, because I asked her to draw it before I actually wrote this. I suggest checking it out!_

* * *

Dark grimaces against the sudden invasion of light. "What do you want?"

His hissing demand takes a moment to register in his – elder? – sister's eyes, and she eyes him a moment. "Um, may I come in?"

"No."

There's disappointment, visibly, but it doesn't stop what comes next. "I just … I need to talk to you, Little Brother."

"Too _bad_, and don't _call_ me –" He shudders, "_Little Brother_."

"Well, that's what you are to me."

"I don't _care_," he's stopped caring, since a long time ago. She can't seem to get it through her thick red head. He thinks of the days when his hair was whitest white, irises greenest green, skin the strangest shade of tan. Now, he's palest green, his hair is perpetually on _fire_, and his glance is less of a glance and more of a crimson glare.

And, yet, here she is, Jazz Fenton, standing before him, unafraid and apparently unconfused by the very fact he _exists_.

"Danny."

He scoffs.

"This is completely natural, Danny."

As if it matters.

"It doesn't mean anything."

It means _everything_.

"It happens to all ghosts. You're half-human. It just took a little bit longer than normal."

That doesn't change the _fact_ –

"I look like _him_."

He feels a firm hand grasp his shoulder, "I know you do. Who cares?"

"Sam and Tucker will. They remember him, more than you do. They'll look at me, and _scream_."

She isn't moved.

"They'll get over it. They're your friends."

He wishes she'd quit making him speak, "Even my voice ..."

"It's a nice voice," Jazz says to Danny Phantom, and not Dark Phantom. He's still locked inside his thermos, far, far away, in Clockwork's Tower.


	20. Winded Up, and Methodically Winded Down

**_WINDED UP, AND THEN METHODICALLY WINDED DOWN._**

* * *

I_ hope the title makes sense. I imagine Danny would kind of become a master at operating behind-the-scenes after awhile. It kind of has a scary feel when I think about it. I like scary Danny. Still a good guy, but you don't practice something for years since you were fourteen without becoming a little disconcertingly efficient, eventually. Vlad must be beaming from wherever he is!_

* * *

There are lots of reasons why the lab beneath FentonWorks is a restricted area, off-limits to all but the oldest members of the household. Jack and Maddie waste no time, placing things back where they belong. The purpose of the sharp, potentially dangerous utensils has been used up for the time being, and they know better than to leave them out where they can be tampered with. Four years ago, that would've been laughable. Who could ever get down there, the one section of the house that sometimes even locks out its owners by mistake, the paranoia of a built-in high security system?

A lot of people, as it turns out. No, Maddie amends herself, a lot of _creatures_.

The things that find their way down there aren't human. Aren't, ever.

Her lips turn down at the thought, a frown just waiting to turn into something deeper, and furious, but she has more self-control than that. Always has. If Jack sees, he doesn't point out, because he knows her buttons. It's second-nature. Neither of them can imagine life without the other. Why would they want to?

Tonight's session is over with. Good. For once, nothing happened. There were no unexpected … visitors. She feels mocked. Humiliated. She'd been so prepared, so tense. Jack held her hand to relax her. She wanted that white-haired son-of-a-bitch to stray their way, again, oh, she _did_. She _does_. The things she'd do!

This is unprofessional. They're at home, not in the field, not in some GIW laboratory. She can think violent thoughts however often she likes. Jack understands. He agrees.

She has an agenda for tomorrow ... Jack'll like the sound of it.

* * *

"Geez," Danny breathes to himself, in human form, above his parents' heads. There are a ton of metallic rafters near the ceiling, wide enough for a teenage kid to stand upon. He's sure there's some complicated reason why they're there. He smothers a sneeze, knowing he'll be totally unsurprised if it turns out there are bloodblossoms in the lab, somewhere below. His hair is black, his eyes are blue, and there's no black-and-white color palettes in sight. The ghost-bound machinery doesn't notice his presence. They're shutting things up, going to bed for the night. Does he really pick on them so much? At first, he started following them around and teasing them relentlessly to make _himself_ feel better. Two prolific, world-renowned ghost hunters? And he can outsmart them under their very noses? What a boost, yeah? It's awesome! Or, it was.

( It's kind of hard to not take advantage of it, anyway, since they like to blab their plans to their children at the dining table every stinkin' night ... )

What a contrast, to the constant scheming webs Vlad entangles him in, smugly throwing it in his face every opportunity the elder halfa finds. Danny was too blind to realize the stress he was putting his poor Mom and Dad through, in the meanwhile. The confidence is nice; is it worth it?

He's beginning to doubt it …

( "Danno! Hungry?"

"Yep. Where's sis?" He knows where she is. Maddie's ranting hit a chord with her yesterday night ...

"Jazz is skipping dinner, tonight, she said she felt sick – poor baby. Wanna hear something cool?"

"I guess?" Here it goes.

"It's another one of our plans, for Phantom. He won't get away from us, this time."

"You sure?" )


	21. AstroNot

_**ASTRONOT.**_

* * *

Danny used to relish math homework. Math homework was a breeze. One more A+ was one more step closer to becoming an astronaut, his long-term goal in life. There's no chance of that, now, not when he is, who he has become. That's okay, even though it wasn't always. It used to agonize him. If he had any free time, he poured over his astrophysics, like a lifeline, it was one of those things he'd always included in defining who he was.

Without his even realizing, it began to fade. He started forgetting things. Things he thought were obvious. The things he recited when he met Neil Armstrong in person, and impressed the man with his knowledge. Those details, so painstakingly memorized in his enthusiasm, were replaced by things like, _I need to catch this helpless civilian before they hit the ground and crack open their skull._ Or, _Does Clockwork have another quest for me, this week?_ And, the occasional, _Hey, Sam, you doing anything, later?_

He should probably make the last one less occasional and more routine …

And, there it goes, again. The pain of loss of a once hyped-up future, pushed aside, in the blink of an eye.

He has a new future.


	22. On the Back Of a DVD Case

**_ON THE BACK OF A DVD_** _**CASE.**_

* * *

_Let's say that one day Hollywood gets its hands on Butch Hartman ... this is the summary of the epic film which would result._

* * *

Danny Fenton is a cheeky, fourteen-year-old highschooler boy, beginning his freshman year at Casper High in the northern Illinois town of Amity Park. He's never set foot near Chicago in his life, he has a teensy bit of an accent, sometimes, and he dreams of becoming an astronaut. He's definitely displaying the right material for it. He has a bunch of friends; his closest are Tuckard "Tucker" Foley, a technological whiz, and, for some reason, the girl he met back in seventh grade, Samantha E. Manson. Don't call her Samantha, though, she'll wring your neck ... or, at least, make you wish she had. He has a feeling they get along so well because he's pretty much the only person she talks to who doesn't bring up her Gothic lifestyle every other sentence. Her uptight mother and father do that enough, as it is. That's cool. He can't talk, anyway. His family isn't exactly normal, either. There's a lab in their basement, after all.

Danny's parents are world-renowned scientists, famous for creating a whole entire new field of science that's practically their own.

His older sister, by two years, is a budding psychologist, and is doggedly determined to dissect the heads of everyone she knows.

He, himself, is an outer-space genius with a real autographed poster of Neil Armstrong in his bedroom.

Nope, he can't look down his nose at anybody. He's an easygoing, tolerant dude. People appreciate that. Always doing something nice for someone. For this reason, he invites Sam and Tuck' over to his place. Tucker's a geek. The inventions his Mom and Dad can show the guy will have him drooling. Sam just likes freaky things in general. Their newest project, a giant freakin' hole in the wall, ominously named 'the Portal,' sure fits that bill.

It's scheduled for activation, today, and Mr. and Mrs. Fenton - Jack and Maddie - don't mind an audience, so long as they're wearing suitable protection. They have been working on this baby for years. Jack jokes that since they've put so much effort into the darned thing, it's practically their third child, though don't tell anyone else in their profession they said that, it would kind of be considered unprofessional. Danny rolls his eyes at their words, and the awe in his friends' faces. His sister's there, too, and she's even less impressed than he is. Oh, it's awesome-looking, all right, until a person thinks about its purpose.

Unless you're a weirdo like Sam. If you're Sam, the possibility of ghosts, the undead, the _afterlife_, ( zombies, man! ) being scientifically explainable is the single most mind-blowing thing you've heard yet so far, and you want to see proof.

She'll get proof. They all will.


	23. Disgusting Details

_** DISGUSTING DETAILS.**_

* * *

_A kids' show can't go too far into detail about certain things, but, in real life, when you're a grown man, and some douchebag teenage boy full to the brim with bravado is constantly picking on your wife and daughter … and you remember perfectly well what teenage boys are like …_

_Based on my headcanon that Danny tends to get along better with girls than other guys, with Tucker being pretty much the only exception we really see within his age-range. Because there ARE boys like that who are still straight. I know a few._

_A conversation in text form._

* * *

_hey, tucker._

hey, man, what d'ya need?

_what's an oedipus?_

dude. don't ask.

_it's my project, though._

WHY?

_is it really that bad? lancer assigned individual greek concepts to everybody …_

ew. ok. oedipus is when a son falls in love with his mother and wants to kill his father to get her. it happens with apes sometimes.

_( no response. )_

and, you know, hillbillies.

_( no response. )_

there's also a reverse oedipus. it's all sick.

_( no response . )_

r u ok?

_like i NEED to think about that kind of shit right now._

_fuck._

_as if my parents don't hate me enough already._

_it never occurred to me._

_they don't see phantom as their kid._

_is that why my dad wants to destroy me so much?_

_because I pay way much more attention to jazz and mom in ghost form?_

_i always wondered why they look at me like that._

_oh, god. gross._

i'm sorry, dan.

_not your fault. thanks I guess. maybe I can ask lancer for a different thing. he'll get it, right?_

i hope so.


	24. Fitting

**_FITTING._**

* * *

Danny contemplates how many carefully constructed networks he and his friends have set up over the years will fall apart if his parents ever have a – any – measure of light shed upon them. God, his parents. Kept in the dark for so long. Everything has spiraled out of control so fast, they'll never understand who he really is by this point. The dots to connect between D. Fenton and D. Phantom bask in the sun like vulnerable fucking ducks. It is obvious. Painfully obvious.

But the hatred Jack and Maddie have for Phantom blinds them so _fully_. There is a curtain before their eyes. An accidental imprint of their son, caused by a freak accident which never should have happened in the first place. That is all. Nothing more, and nothing less. Danny tried, keyword being tried, to bring up the similarities between the names Fenton and Phantom once. Once. His parents looked at him so strangely that he decided, perturbed, to never broach the subject again. He's lost count of the number of life-changing, perspective-altering events that have gone on under their very noses … and it's not even their fault. It's his. It's Vlad's. Vlad Plasmius is the bastard who threatened to kill Jack Fenton if Danny ever, _ever_, blew their shared identities as halfas. In the beginning, that was the only reason Danny kept his mouth shut in paranoia.

Would his parents have dissected him? Not back then, when Danny was younger, and full of terror at the changes in his halved life. They would've seen past the ghostliness, and comforted their distraught child. He understands his old fear of experimentation was childish. It's too late now. Danny Fenton _and_ Danny Phantom go by Dan Fenton and Dan Phantom these days. Danny just kind of sounds silly for a senior in highschool …

The curtain flaps due to uncontrollable winds, every once in a great while, revealing glimpses of a boy who had no choice but to become a man far sooner than the norm. That seems whiny, Dan thinks with a glance at his feet. It's not as if he didn't get damn good at handling the lifestyle with time. Ask anyone who knows him. _Really_ knows him, that is. He bears witness to it, if he's lucky : the flash of comprehension in a stranger's face when the shaggy, unkempt guy in a torn jacket says something they don't expect. How they either assume he's condescending, a know-it-all, or they turn away out of respect.

"I ran, so the ghosts wouldn't get me," only works for so long even when you aren't practically the height of a professional basketball player, and stubble doesn't dot your jawline. It's a plausible excuse for a scared kid, like he was, once upon a time. He is not a kid.

And he is not scared.

"Wh –"

_There's_ his mother.

They're at a fair. Amity Park likes to host fairs during the summer.

There was a ghost.

It's gone now. It's inside a Fenton thermos, invisible in the palm of Dan's hand. Nobody noticed the flash of light in the mens' bathroom. No one ever notices.

Jack demands, partly out of worry, partly out of disbelief, "Where did you _go_?"

"I … ran."

There is a pregnant pause. Jazmine hisses soundlessly, the kind of hiss a person makes when they see someone get hurt.

"So you _abandoned_ your _family_?"

Dan can't fathom a counter out of thin air this time. This is a new accusation.

Fuck.

"Danny – I – I just, what is _wrong_ with you?!"

They still call him Danny.

It fits.

They think it fits.


	25. Casting Shadows

**_CASTING SHADOWS._**

* * *

_Johnny and Kitty's true names and Kitty's father © celeste angela pichowsky, me._

* * *

Phantom jeers, speeding like a zip of monochrome light against the clear blueness that is his backdrop. There's practically no weather this afternoon. He relishes in it. He's hunting down a typical variety of ghost, spotted with such frequency by residents of the Illinois town of Amity Park that no one really bats an eye at them, anymore. Ghost rabbits. It's a preferable contrast to the mania and screaming that anything even slightly glowing sometimes attracts. Those are the big ones, the dangerous dumb animal ghosts who stray a little too close to the living for comfort. That's the Phantom's day job, and, to be honest, it's not much different than tranquilizing a bear digging through someone's trashcan and releasing back where it belongs : in the forest. In the Zone. Phantom smirks at the comparison, because there has definitely been a dead bear … or five. The ghosts are a bigger cause for alarm, considering they usually simply cannot be seen. Phantom can see them just fine, though.

The higher-level, thinking and rational specter-kin, they're people, too, and ethics enter the question, then, despite Phantom knows some of them just _deserve_ having the unliving tar beat out of them. They're fugitives, outlaws, criminals and the generally unpleasant, cast out from the established nations in the Zone – yeah, that boggled Phantom's mind, too, but if there's Pandora, Dorathea, and Frostbite … well, why not? – and in hiding in the darkest pits of the Badlands. The Badlands – the place where most of Phantom's enemies spawn from. Who'da thunk. Walker has no authorized laws, after all. If anything, he's committing treason against Pariah Dark by even trying. It doesn't surprise Danny, although he sincerely doubts the prophetic King will be unearthing himself anytime soon and take personal offense at the gesture …

There's an underlying motive to Danny's ghosthunting, today. The friendly waves the citizens give him are a bonus. Johnny Thirteen and his newly-wedded wife, Kitty, are throwing a babyshower tonight. Kitty is pregnant. It's cool. Danny wasn't even freaking aware ghosts could have kids. A cute ghost rabbit will be a nice gift. Shadow's gonna be juggling.

Huh.

Shadow …

Johnny viewed Shadow as little more than the physical manifestation of the bad aspects of his personality, his perceived terrible luck, and … the unseemly habits. Danny doesn't know what they are for sure, but he has better tact than to ask. It's none of his business. As it turns out, it wasn't the case. Shadow was, _is_ John Henley's self-imposed insecurity, loathing, and doubt. "Thirteen," was a moniker coined during Johnny's life. It's stuck, though, and strangers are introduced to Thirteen before Henley decides to show.

Danny doesn't see a problem with that. He's just happy for them – they're great people, actually, and he doesn't mind spending time with them at all. And, well, the lack of lovers' spats broaching the Zone-Amity border is kind of nice, too …

Kitty's real name is Kirsten Hendrickson. Her father was a rigid military lieutenant who disapproved of her relationship with Johnny with every fiber of his being. Like most, all Mr. Hendrickson could see when he looked at Johnny was Shadow, before Shadow was technically visible.

Shadow isn't so bad, once Danny got to know him. He's just … perpetually fatigued. Tired. With life? Er – afterlife? Still. His _taming_, so to speak, began when Phantom himself pointed out that Shadow calms and gets angry in tandem with Johnny. As if they're connected in a different way than Johnny originally thought. Danny was kind of pulling at straws at the time, and made himself keep going when Johnny froze.

Shadow is tied to Johnny.

Luck is an element even the undead cannot control. So, why was Johnny apparently an exception to that rule?

That made Johnny think.

Johnny said that there were rare moments he could, "reign in," Shadow. It was when he wasn't really thinking about it. It came naturally. Shadow reacts to John's state of mind.

So, as luck would have it – Danny grins, his puns aren't _always_ horrifying – that was exactly what the doctor ordered for Johnny to start the slow process of pulling himself together, for the sake of his loved one. Kitty. They're so in-tune for each other, now … and they're eternally grateful to Danny Phantom as a result.

Phantom's accustomed to gaining the favor of authority figures like Frostbite and Dora. He hadn't seen that coming. He accepted their gratitude with politeness and caution ; it's not like he wants to end up being the cause of a couple splitting. He's broken enough promises …

So has Johnny.

Danny won't go into that. Johnny's trusting him a lot … and Danny's hoping he can live to those expectations. Johnny is the kind of guy who takes their own screwups particularly hard. On more than a single occasion, Danny's seen him, sitting on those floating boulders in the Ghost Zone, just _cursing_ who he is. Who he was. A perfect boost of morale. _He_ spurred it. Wow. Maybe he _can_ do this hero – … thing.

Did he mention specter-kin have weddings?


	26. Adjusting

**_ADJUSTING._**

* * *

_Inspired by ~Skellagirl on deviantART, "Cookies and science."_

* * *

Maddie smiles languidly, feeling in her niche. In her lab. Jack and Maddie's lab. Objectively, the single most productive section of FentonWorks. No amount of essaying can document the breakthroughs and eurekas which occurred _above_ the lab, but that's something they don't need to share with anybody else aside themselves, isn't it? The memories breathe like a beating heart if she sits down and tries to hone in on it long enough. Usually she does this when she's upset, and her state of mind sometimes blocks that healing sensation. That's alright, because in the end, they're all in her heart. It just takes awhile before she remembers to remind herself of that fact.

A unique cabinet system.

Does she feel guilty for thinking of it that way? Why? It's a perfectly fine metaphor …

She's been paying too much heed to Jazz's worrying. That's it.

She isn't sure what's bringing on this sudden bout of nostalgia. It's becoming more tiresome than it's worth. She _does_ actually feel a pinch of guilt for _that_ thought, and shakes herself. She supposes she's overwhelmed. She's reminiscing on subjects which are familiar to her. Such reflection is often provoked by some sort of change in one's daily routine. The Phantom almost became a normal circumstance. That _is_ about to change.

There. That makes sense.

"Um ..."

Acidic viridian eyes blink at her owlishly, extremities bound behind their owner's back. The specimen itself has been locked inside a small ectoranium-lined space.

How can she _work_ with these distractions? Get a hold of yourself, Madeline!

She adjusts her blood red goggles. The softness is evaporated. It's as if someone's pulled a lever.


	27. Unforeseen

_**UNFORESEEN.**_

* * *

Danny Fenton regrets that he didn't fix his wound, now that it's turning a weird purplish tone in contrast to the reddish-brown it normally becomes – a bruise. He isn't fibbing to the school nurse as he tells her point-blank that he heals faster than other people. Ectoplasm repairs itself in no time. He got a little used to the convenience.

It isn't working now, though, and that confounds him. What's so different this time than the rest? He runs a mental checklist. Plasmius wasn't involved. Sam, Tucker, and even Jazz, for all her lack in aiming proficiency, haven't misfired at him in ages. It's a new record. The ghost he brawled with was plain and weak. Danny's trained himself to keep an eye for anything weird, anything at all, and he hasn't seen anything. It's virtually impossible for ghosts to sneak up on him unexpectedly anymore, now that he's older, more powerful, and his sense has expanded to a wider range. He thought he was finally figuring half-life out. Fixating a routine. That there would be less shocks, and more predictability.

By no means does that mean Danny's _lowered his guard_, he's been in this, "business," too long to do something immature like that, but …

Do the undead … get infections?

* * *

At lunchtime, he spills the beans, and Tucker wastes no time googling possible hindrances of ectoplasm.


	28. Hatecakes

**_HATECAKES._**

* * *

Cupcakes that are poisonous to ectoplasmic entities?

That is bullshit.

That is absolutely dumb.

The Fentons are in their late thirties and-or early forties. Danny doesn't know. It hasn't occurred to him as something important to ask. It shouldn't matter. They don't live in a kids' cartoon, where there are never ever any consequences for anyone's actions. Who thinks of … of cupcakes? That's deranged. Creepy. Fucked-up. It's what Danny expects to receive from those Guys in White assholes, not his _parents_. They are professionally taught _adults_, and, well, so are the Whitecoats, but that is a completely different thing.

His parents are the people he can count on to step back when they're almost stepping into depraved territory. Hunting is not a childrens' hobby. It needs to be taken seriously. But …

Ghosts aren't qualified to have ethics in consideration.

They don't have human rights.

People are creative if they are left to their own devices.

Danny doubles over from the splitting agony in his abdomen. Oh fucking well, huh? They're going to lose both their son and their biggest nuisance in one go. If these are his last thoughts, then, let them be wrapped in malice.


	29. Pseudo-Elderly

**_PSEUDO-ELDERLY._**

* * *

_Before you point it out to me, yes, I am fully aware that there is a huge chance that Sam and Tuck' would never act this way canonwise. But, biting the opposite cheek, they are fourteen years old, and are thus prone to major screwups and assumptions. Also, this is meant to be angst. Angst is always painful regardless of canon or noncanon._

* * *

Falling asleep in class. The sin of sins.

Danny can imagine a thousand things worse; nobody cares what he thinks, or what he has to say. He is kicked out of class and into the hallway, to wait for an A.P. to come and pick him up.

His friends aren't very sympathetic.

"There hasn't been a ghost for days, man, what's up with you?" Tucker asks, looking at him, as if he's in the right and Danny is not. Sam just mirrors the look. They're doing what they think is best for him, and, y'know, them. Really.

They're too young to understand that the fatigue comes from much, much more than the fights.

As in, they are literally too young.

The aging process of a ghost differs from that of a human's. It doesn't depend on how long they've been around, the years don't pile up, adding and adding until they're just too gray and wrinkled to stay alive, anymore. It's connected to how old they are _inside_. It's why Vlad's hair is striped with white. It's why Youngblood never grows any taller, why his tubby kindergartner fingers don't get any leaner.

Danny has outgrown his friends during the span of a year. His human DNA limits exactly how much it shows, physically, but it can't hide his hallowed eyes. Sam and Tuck' just assume he's turning into a jerky bully like Dash. He doesn't resent them. When do fourteens understand twenties?

"Dude, tell us when you quit being a freak."

Danny can wait a couple years before talking to them again.


	30. Enemy of Mine - prompt -

_**ENEMY OF MINE.**_

* * *

_Ghostwriter and Youngblood's true names © celeste angela pichowsky, me._

* * *

_Thirtieth installment! Ha, ha. Sixty-nine reviews. Yes, I just made a sexual position joke._

_An idea. A prompt. I doubt I'll have the time, or a long-enough lasting muse, to write this one out fully, but I thought it was a good deal, so I'm asking someone with a decent grasp of the English language and a love for "DP" to take it on and carry it away into the proverbial sunset._

_Largely inspired by the relationship between Cooper Raccoon and Carmelita Fox in the "Sly Cooper" videogame series, and the 30 Seconds to Mars song, "Stranger In a Strange Land," which, as you might be able to figure out if you've heard it before, is where the title is from._

_The pairing is DxS / Amethyst Ocean, and it's supposed to be slow-building. The Phandom really should have its own personal LiveJournal or tumblr just for phanfiction prompts for something … "Supernatural" and "Avengers" get their own, why not us?_

_Rules for adopting and filling out this prompt are the same as they are in the first chapter of this collection. Ask me, link me, credit me, and it's all cool. Can be taken on by different people, more than once, even. PM me, please._

_Enjoy._

* * *

Dan snorts, "Survey says, Dad, we're kind of out of choices right now."

Derrick looks at him sharply. "I know what I'm doing, Daniel Nabuife. Do as I say." Grudging, Dan shuffles uncomfortably, but does as he's told nonetheless. He doesn't agree. He wishes war hadn't broken out just like any other specter, but it _has_, and that's the big thing. His father's acting as if he _won't_ get blasted the minute he tries to negotiate. Negotiate. God. It feels stupid on his tongue …

Derrick Nabuife is a scholar. He's something of a spy, an obvious one, planted in the Badlands years ago by Clockwork himself to keep an eye on … things. What things? Dan doesn't know. He's never met the Master of Time directly. His dad's the guy who understands half the riddles that leave Clockwork's mouth. If Clockwork thinks something's gonna go down, well, shit, you better lock up your doors, somethin' is goin' down.

He guesses he should be grateful. If it hadn't been for the set of circumstances as they were, Dan would've been just one of many of the unlucky kids taking care of themselves – alone – in what is decidedly the least orderly section of the Zone. He's familiar with one of those kids. Curtis Youngblood, so thoroughly traumatized that he doesn't age, can't, because a specter's aging process depends on how they are _inwardly_, and Curt' feels safer when he's young and innocent …

Scratch that. Dan … _Danny_, _is_ grateful. It's just … their world is ending.

And it's all the _other_ world's fault.

* * *

The Human World and the Ghost Zone are at war. Daniel Fenton died shortly after birth due to complications, and Daniel Phantom has spent his entire afterlife as an average ghost, except, perhaps not to average. He grew up in the Badlands, after all – the no-mans' land of the spectral realm. Most who dwell there are criminals and unsavory for a child to interact with, which, is why the better examples of outcasts gravitated to the babe. Infants who died unfortunately end up there all the time. You could call it adoption. Derrick Nabuife, aka, the Ghostwriter, just calls it having a heart in a place so lacking of it.

What do you think?

Samantha Manson doesn't think anything. She is alive, and the only Fentons she's ever known are Jazmine, Maddie, and Jack. She admires them for varying reasons. One, they've supported her more than her parents ever have, and, second, Maddie is her mentor, whilst a girl Sam hardly knows, but attended highschool with, Valerie Gray, is under Jack's tutelage.

Sam's quickly growing close to Jazz, but she can't help but miss her old friend, Tucker Foley … he's training in a different division, and one he's well-suited for. She wishes him the best of luck, wherever he is now.

The Zone has its own manner of going about things, and, to be honest, it's not much different than the humans'. This is something neither side will admit, under pain of death … or second-death. Ghosts – "specter-kin," are not savages. Those are the demented ones, like Nocturne, or Vortex, infamous wanted terrorists hunted by wardens and Observants alike. Dan Phantom, with hair of whitest fire and skin of palest green, just wants to protect where he lives. Yes, live, because there isn't much else to refer to it by that has quite the same meaning.

Sam and Dan rise through the ranks in their respective areas of expertise, and, eventually, meet. They're efficient at the things that they do. A game of cat and mouse begins. Military tactics and solo missions and flying sparks.

There's also a wig, because Sam's parents won't let her dye her hair completely black, which is bullshit, but she's still a minor, yet. Why isn't Dan? He is. He might've gone against Derrick's wishes and lied about his age to his superiors. Anyway, this chick wears a wig? Ha! He can take advantage of _that_ for his own amusement …


	31. Warning, May Contain Lunacy

_**WARNING, MAY CONTAIN LUNACY.**_

* * *

_Inspired by that one god damn hilarious Dash and Danny panel comic on deviantART which I cannot find for the life of me. If I could, I would so name and credit that amazing person who drew it._

* * *

"Tell me what I gotta do, Clock'," Danny boasts, puffing out his chest – or, uh, what little of a chest he's got. "You can count on me."

He pauses, "Which is basically the single corniest thing I've ever said, but. It's." He can't think of a closing quip for this one. Crap.

To his credit, Clockwork keeps a straight face, "Accurate? True? Believe it or not, Danny, but sometimes, cliché _does_ work. It's just a matter of whether or not is it delivered well."

Danny kind of stares.

"Gotcha, C-Man."

Clockwork smiles, shifting from form to form, as if there's nothing freaky about that all, _god_, this guy! "Your tasks are over with, as of now."

Danny brightens, mostly because that means he's going to _rest_, not because he doesn't like hanging around Clockwork or anything. He likes Clockwork. He owes him a lot. "Awesome! See ya – til … til … well, til ya call me again." What a lame goodbye.

He forgets to exit Clockwork's tower via the front doors, again. Even ghosts have etiquette they follow. It's too late by the time he realizes, because he's already at the glassless window.

"However, young Phantom."

Danny freezes, despite himself.

"Be prepared."

Danny looks at him slowly. Fudge on a stick, he doesn't like that tone. Never has, "Yeah? For what?"

"An unexpected discovery shall find itself upon your doorstep, soon, and I felt you should –" and then the most terrifying thing happens.

Clockwork bursts into laughter.

Unmitigated, unadulterated _laughter_.

It scares Danny so bad, he _flees_.

* * *

Danny's still in the recovery process when he does actually get a nasty surprise, but probably not the one Clockwork was losing his head over. This is just Dash. Dash Baxter, highschool junior and top bully of Casper High.

Danny's relationship with Dash is a complicated relationship, and not just because it functions like that of a lion and a gazelle : predator-prey. No, every school has bullies and easy targets. That would be simple. What they have is not uncomplex like that. Firstly, though Dash isn't aware, this gazelle has venomous fangs, too small to see on a normal basis, but incredibly deadly, regardless. That's the oddest metaphor Danny's ever made up on the spot.

Secondly, Dash always gives Danny an unjustified amount of attention compared to the rest of the students he victimizes. Kids like that one ginger, freckled dude Danny can't remember the name of are only picked on when they cross Dash's general path. Danny … Dash goes directly and deliberately out of his _way_ for his precious Fentonio.

Precious?

Okay, maybe that's pushing it …

"Hey, Fentoenail!"

"Oh, dear sweet god."

He swivels on his heel. Clockwork"s lessons took all night, get it, so Danny's not quite eased out of the no-funny-business-let's-get-this-stuff-over-with mentality, yet. "Whaddaya _want_, Baxter?"

"Awh, nothin'," Dash answers with feigned innocence, "Just something to _wail on_!"

As if he ever wants anything different.

Danny almost considers giving Dash a _literal_ Wail … but that would pretty much bring down the whole school, so that's a no-go, "Can't it _wait_ –"

"Nope!"

Suddenly, wedgies.

At least it wasn't a swirlie this time …

This is the twenty-first century, _goddammit_. Who even _does swirlies anymore_.

"Y'know, Fenton." Oh, hell. It sounds like he's been _thinking_. That can't be good, for anyone involved. "I've been thinking …" Fuck. "... My mom's been telling me I need to be more open-minded, lately." Okayyyyy. "And I think you're the perfect way for me to start being that way." Grammatically incorrect as ever, the asshole – what? "You know that old wives' tale about how boys always pick on the girls they like by pulling on their pigtails and stuff –"

"Dude, isn't that, like, something you should discuss with your _mom_?"

"Uh …"

There isn't a thoughtful bone in this dumbass' body.

"Wh – what do you always pick on _me_ for, anyway?!"

Something changes in Dash's face. The change is profound. His expression goes very blank, and he stares off into space. _Holy jesus, _realizes Danny, _I'm witnessing Dash Baxter thinking!_

"I … don't … know …"

Well, obviously, it didn't do much good, but Danny's marking this day on his calender, sure as hell.

Alright, this has officially crossed the line from slightly off, to weirdest shit in the universe. "No, seriously, though," snarks Danny, trying very hard not to writhe in his assailant's grip. That would just be … "Let go of me, Dash." This is lasting a few seconds too long.

And then, the unthinkable.

Dash's hand drifts downward, brushing against skin.

It all dawns on Danny Fenton-Phantom very slowly.

He _squirms for his life_.

"Clockwork, you _sonofabitch_, I will get you for this!"


	32. Kids Are Cruel

_**KIDS ARE **__**CRUEL.**_

* * *

Danny walks with a slouch in his step to his locker. Third period class has just ended, the halls are crowded and full of chatter as his two best friends, Sam and Tucker find their way to him. Tucker's arms are laden with keyboarding class textbooks – Danny raises a brow at them, and then at him, more in admiration than anything else. He doesn't understand how Tuck' can comprehend all that technological jargon, and he can understand his own parents' technobabble even less. He feels a wave of bitterness at this. He comes from a family of geniuses, and while he used to be a master of astrophysics himself, his newfound halfa life seems to have turned his brains to mush. There's just no time left over from the rest of the crazy things happening to pay attention to school.

Oh, well.

He shuffles the necessary items together from his own locker space, not quite as neatly as he'd hoped, but, hey. At least he has them. He's kind of in a fuzzy haze. He guesses Technus knocked his head too hard against the wall.

"So, you're partnered with Paulina?"

Tucker's question jolts him. He'd forgotten! Holy crap! Technus jumped the cafeteria in the middle of their last class; Mr. Lancer's partner assignments handed out minutes before. Of course he didn't remember. Danny was busy considering himself lucky Technus was close enough to him that his ghost sense went off. Danny's blue breath has a certain range – sometimes he can't get there in time …

He doesn't like to think about it.

He remarks with sarcasm, "Yeah! Isn't that awesome? I'm stuck with the psychotic Phan." It hasn't always been this way. In the past, Danny thought popular girl Paulina Sanchez was worth dying for. He was a stupid, shallow boy, and Paulina … ? Well, she's a stupid, shallow girl. Sam has been right all along, he figures. It's amazing, what a person realizes over the course of a simple year. Or, not so simple …

Tucker is scandalized. "Dude! Man, you have all the luck! Just – uh. Don't talk like Phantom, though."

_Don't talk like Phantom._ The veneer shielding Fenton from the public's mixed perspective of Phantom is thin. Fenton is unreliable, stupid, and not worth the time and effort to get to know personally. Phantom is an idol. He is charismatic, doesn't snub the teenagers like an adult would, is confident, and he gets stuff _done_. That's the most important part. He does what he claims he will do. Fenton doesn't, ever. It suffocates Danny, sometimes, how one second the student body is cheering him on and even volunteering to _help_ him catch a ghost – which he can't allow, but _god_, are they brave! And then the next second, his hair is black and his eyes are blue, and they're looking at him like he's not even a speck of dirt on the ground.

Despite himself, the sudden changes feel confusing …

"If, by luck, you mean _misfortune_," Sam pipes up, and Danny smiles, because he can always count on her commentary to diffuse his thoughts, whether she realizes it or not, "God, what do you _see_ in her?"

If Tucker was a few years younger he would've – no, never mind, he sticks his tongue out at her, anyway. "Yo! What's the big deal? You act like being attractive's a crime! She ain't hurtin' nobody!" Except Paulina does hurt people. She is an expert on the Phantom Boy for a reason : she interviews witnesses, and endlessly hounds them if they don't want to talk about their experience. She's nuts.

Sam just rolls her eyes. She's gotten better at not letting conflicts escalate, though her red-hot temper does tend to overwhelm her, still. "Right. Let's get to class. Dorks."

They do so. Danny doubts he'll get to see Paulina again, today. This isn't homework. It's an in-class project. He'll have to wait until tomorrow to face her.

He can only hope she doesn't spot the similarities between his and Phantom's face shape. Or voice … or … oh, man.

* * *

Sam tries not to be too harsh.

Every other _noise_ which comes out of Paulina Sanchez's mouth, she wants to fucking _correct_. Because, in some way, some sense, some manner of _political semantics_, _whatever_, Sam doesn't care, Paulina is _wrong_, somehow. Her voice makes Sam wants to punch her pretty nose off her plastic-surgery-esque mug.

It is difficult.

Difficult not to _scream_.

"So, like – if your parents hunt Phantom, and whatever – what do they know about him?"

That's all she cares to know. Sam feels pity for Danny. He's tired, it's plain as day, but Paulina won't relent. But, then he seems to get an idea.

"Uh, actually …"

Sam wonders what he has up his sleeve.

"And you're not gonna like the sound of this …"

Sam's ears practically perk.

"But _I'm_ Phantom."

There's a confused pause – _nobody_ expected him to say that. Then, there's laughter, and Sam finds it hideous. "What the hell are you talking about, Fenton?" The whole classroom is listening in.

"I mean, I'm Phantom. Think about it. We look so alike, why not? Christ! I mean – how do you not see it?! Ask my parents! They'll tell you! You know about the Portal, right?"

No one nods, but Sam knows they do. Jack and Maddie held a television-broadcasted press conference, where they explained a great many details Danny and his friends would've much preferred no one had a clue about.

"Then you know about my accident with it?"

Maddie omitted some things from that particular section – why shouldn't she? Who wants to be seen as a irresponsible parent? Because she isn't. Nor is Jack.

"Yeah, so?" Dash is already turning away. The fuckhead.

God, poor Danny. His chest is deflating, but he doesn't let it lie, "And ghosts are imprints of living people."

"Soooo?" It's Paulina, now. A delicate brow is raised, and Danny doesn't like to hit girls that aren't hitting him first, but Sam thinks she sees his knuckles twitch. Or maybe it's just her. She doesn't blame him. She wants to slap that eyebrow, too. It's probably painted on. It'll come right off.

"Phantom is my imprint. I died for a second in that Portal. He came from me. Can't you _tell_?" Danny's yanking at straws, which is sad, because he's _not_. He's telling the truth, and there's so much disbelief pitted against him even _he_ doesn't believe himself. He's so accustomed to being cast aside. It's pathetic. And it fills Sam Manson with indignation.

It's what comes next that's worse.

"Yeah? So, what?"

Kwan?

_Kwan_?

"Phantom is a hero. Phantom is great. You're just a lowlife trying to draw attention to yourself, because _you_ can't face the fact Phantom's you, because he's a _better_ you!"

_What?_

"Everyone loves him, but you've done _shit_! It doesn't mean anything! I'm pretty sure you're the worst case scenario, here, buddy!"

Danny really is deflating now. Oh, god. No. His feelings are hurt. Anyone's would be. How would you feel, if there were two separate yous, and everyone honestly believed that you were the failure and the other one – oh, god. _Danny_.

People are clapping.

Paulina makes a tsking noise and sits with someone else, her body language screaming, _Ew, I'm leaving_. Her ass hits her new chair with deliberate force. Danny sinks into his seat. Sam is fucking _fuming_. But she's more mature than any of them. She goes to Danny.

So does Tucker. By the look on his face, he doesn't like Paulina Sanchez, anymore.

Danny's mumbling things under his breath, and what he's saying upsets them both, "You've never seen the worst case scenario … he killed the whole world ..."


	33. Being Faceless in A Faceless MexiGrill

**_BEING FACELESS IN A FACELESS MEXICAN GRILL._**

**_And coming to terms with the fact that you have a face._**

* * *

_Chapter title's too short, apologies for that. On top of that, I apologize for any inaccuracy there might be with my placing minorities in a state like Wisconsin. I have no idea about its history, and I'm winging it for the sake of writing this. Creative license, and that is my excuse. _

_I am half Mexican, my mother being born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico. She lives there, now, in fact, and every morning she crosses that crowded border to work her job taking care of elderly people in southern California, my birthplace. When it gets late, she goes back to Mexico once again, via the same exact route that she took early that morning. I love her and really miss her, and she has type 2 diabetes, she's really poor, and goddammit I just get so worried. The setting of this story is based off my own personal experiences within the many tiny Mexican restaurants my mom dragged me to as a child, kicking and screaming, because the petstore was right down the sidewalk, why couldn't we go there, instead?! God, the memories hurt me. _

_I love you, Mommy. I hope you're okay where you are, whilst I'm sitting here on my lazy, useless ass in Texas thinking about you._

* * *

The half-thrown together enchilada flares in his sinuses.

"I swear to god, Jack," Vladdy pinches the skin where the bridge of his nose and his forehead meet. He does this with real emotion. Vladdy's kind of a master of theatrics in that way. He can do little things like that, and no one thinks he's strange, or that he's trying too hard to get his point across. Most other people would get glances, _Are you serious? Geez. I'm really rethinking why I wanted to hang out with you._ Jack's mood dampens slightly at that thought – which is more of a memory – and rubs at his watering eyes with his elbows. "You are just so white."

Jack's glare is markedly uncharacteristic, which Jack himself chalks up to the fact that someone's laughing at him _again_. In the back of the room, a Mexican woman ( in Wisconsin? Well, I'll be durned … ! Heck, if there's a stinkin' foreigners' grill, here, why not ... ) is snickering so hard her shoulders shake, and she must smother them with the palms of both her hands. They're in a pseudo ethnic food joint, it's not very high-quality. At all, actually. Jack's temper rouses rarely, and, when it does, he's always strongly reminded of his mother. Bluster? What bluster? That's when Jack is in a good mood, and that is a private thing ... Jack looks Vladdy in the eye, levelly, and asks, "You're not?"

Taken aback, Vladdy straightens, "No! There exist some incredibly spicy Russian foods, I'll have you know! My mother's a Russian immigrant, remember?" Jack does remember. He also remembers Matias Masters ( the man his Pa muttered was a traitor to the American way, marrying a Russian spy just to keep her there – visitors to their capitalist country can only visit for a certain amount time, before they're essentially kicked out. All a person can do to validate their presence – aside from telling them to go get a greencard themselves – is buy a ring and tuck it in a box … ), Vladdy's pop, not exactly olive, not exactly pale … a faintly Italian mix, meanwhile the Fentons are standard American mutts with barely traceable lineage. His own mother's splash of German from her great-grandparents is the most recent addition to whatever mishmash his family tree must be. Jack certainly isn't pink, the oh-so-mocked skintone, but his jet-black hair emphasizes the rest of him, and unfailingly serves to make him seem like the ultimate, thick Caucasian guy nobody wants to socialize with. Life and its habit of prejudgment suck. They really, really suck …

Oh, now he's making himself upset, again. He sounds like his mother. He feels guilt for thinking that. Ma and Pa Fenton think their son never heard the long, drawn-out conversations in the night, the heartbreaking stories his poor Ma needs to describe now and again, to get back on her feet … the changing times were hard on her. So relentless. Being overweight didn't matter as much to her until the seventies hit. Jack can still hear Pa's words. _The diet pills don't help, much, sweetpie, and they ain't ever. There ain't nothin' to help. Ya'll don't need help. You're perfect the way you are …_

Jack's sister wasn't any help, whatsoever. _Geez, Dad. Buzz off. Mom just wants to be pretty._

The shout – the well-deserved shout restrained for years – _Caroline Fenton, ya'll shut your mouth! Can't you see you're mother's sufferin'?!_

An insolent scoff, a slamming screen door, _Whatever, I'm going out._

Jack grumbles, "White variant."

"You'd be surprised," Vladdy half-laughs, with a quirked brow, "The blizzards out there beat up their skin horribly. So it has to grow back thicker, right? The more layers of skin there are, darker you get."

Jack sighs. "I guess."

Vlad's sharp gaze meets his in an instant, "What's wrong?" He doesn't miss a thing. Jack wishes he could be as observant as his best friend. Jack's brilliant when he sets his mind to it, and he isn't even being egocentric. It's taken the longest time for him to believe it. Being told you're a genius enough times has its effect. He's like his Ma that way. Doesn't seem to comprehend the concept of accepting he is a better person than he has been 'informed' he is. Isn't. All in the past. Look at the aftermath; an isolated eccentric overgrown _boy_ with only one friend, and a beautiful female acquaintance who probably only deals with him because they happen to have interesting conversations, sometimes, on a topic they both share and research with the same measure of intensity. She most likely doesn't see the point, otherwise …

"Nothin', just, uh … remembering stupid things about my family."

Vladdy glances away a moment, at the floor, "Buddy … " he trails off, unsure. "I know you've got some issues, and, uh, I think I recall overhearing some of them, before. I just … I hope it's better now?"

Jack didn't expect this. "You _overheard_? What? When?"

Vlad puckers his lips in contemplation, "When we were, like, twelve? Or thirteen? Back when I was that rich kid down the road you liked to mess with? And you were the backwater brat," the last two words are spoken with air quotations, and a sheepish, toothless smile, "Or, that was the phrase my father used, anyway. I remember walking up to your place one day so I could challenge you to something or other, the window to your kitchen was wide open, and, I think your mom was crying … " he trails off again, and Jack doesn't urge him to continue, because he remembers that day, too.

"It's … okay. It's better. Definitely. My mom doesn't have those problems, anymore," she's old, now, and can't risk her health. If she were a little younger, what then? Would she still … ? She was never anorexic. That isn't the way her body is built. She might've been, in another life, in a different genetic make-up, but with the same state of mind. Like those girls strolling through the campus of the University of Wisconsin on weekends, displaying their skin-and-bones shoulder-blades in revealing dresses like they're hot shit. It boggles Jack that he has classes with those girls. How can they be so completely sane when the professor's talking, when they're so obviously _not_?

That dark chapter of the Fenton's life is over with, but not without scars. Caroline married herself to a man the rest of her family hardly knew, doesn't know – she hasn't contacted any of them in years. Made a point to let it be known she won't, when she left. No wedding invitations. It broke Ma. Cristian Loeb? Who the hell is Cristian Loeb? What's he doing with the daughter of their family? Do they have children? Are Ma and Pa grandparents? Is Jack an uncle? Are they in a different state? A different _nation_? Who knows? They sure don't!

It occurs to Jack that maybe – no, Vlad _doesn't_ know the details. He has no idea they were his mother's problems, foremost, more deeply than any other member of their family, though it hurt them all. He's confused, and frustrated, and now he's gonna yell and huff at Jack and leave him and –

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, buddy," Vladdy nudges Jack. Supportive. Unwavering.

And Jack Fenton thinks, some things may be broken, but Ma and Pa sit in a cozy house in the country eagerly awaiting their son's next letter, and they're at peace, a hard-won peace that's missing a girl nicknamed Carol, but it is a peace. The young woman Jack and V. Sabastian Masters associate with on a daily basis is tolerant despite whatever misgivings she must hold – and she really is hellaciously smart. He bets they won't keep in touch after college. She won't allow it. What sane woman with such a bright future ahead of her would? That's alright. He'll cherish the company of someone he can relate to intellectually whose initials aren't V.S.M while he can. Jack may be awkward, but Vladdy sticks by him regardless, and understands the buttons to push to make the scientist emerge from underneath the muddy self-perceptions, the inherited, powerful hatred for oneself.

And Jack Garrison Fenton thinks, life is okay.


	34. I Will Understand Where You Are

**_I WILL UNDERSTAND WHERE YOU ARE._**

* * *

_Nuh-uh, nuh-uh, nuh-uh_

_I don't know anything at all_

_and I'm somebody else_

_it could take years to find you_

_it could take years to find myself_

_and I don't need to hear your answer_

_I just need you to see_

_that I think it's time to break down_

_these walls that we throw up –_

* * *

Jazz zips her brother's backpack closed, "Danny! You're not – busy, are you?"

He responds by materializing through the ceiling and landing lightly and soundlessly on the heels of his feet before her. The front door's unlocked, and, usually, Jazz holds it open for him, or viceversa. It's still shut, "Nah, sis. I'll be at school on _time_ today, I swear to god."

She tuts. "You shouldn't make promises you're not sure you can keep, little brother." It's a blessing that she has such good control over her own voice; if anyone else said that, it would've been taken the wrong way. She's Jazz Fenton, though, the five-foot-something American chick who impressed Harvard with one simple letter. It wasn't even an expository essay. She just sent it on a whim, for the sake of trying, and didn't expect the numerous gushing replies she received. The letter itself was very personal, many pages long, not literary, not objective, a mix of pretty much everything and taken from her life, blurred by metaphors and abbreviated initials. She can't and won't reveal Danny to the world, but she can make him famous without even telling anyone his full name. Or even what he really is …

"_I don't know exactly what your younger sibling's problem is, Miss Fenton, but there is one thing I can tell you with all certainty : I want to meet him."_

She isn't sure how to break the news to him. She wants to show him the letters. Oh, yes she does, and she _will_, it's just – that's funny, she was a great talker a minute ago. Her inability to properly articulate her feelings has led to this.

What he says next, and his full-shoulder shrug that somehow looks far, far beyond his years surprises her, "I do it all the time. Doesn't always work out … nobody's dead yet, right?" It's so nonchalant, it can almost make a person forget that sometimes Danny has night-terrors about walking in to a slaughtered first-period class every other week. On a related note, Jazz may not be an awesome shot, but Nocturne isn't staying around for much longer. Danny grabs his bag, slaps it over his shoulder – then stops.

"Jazz."

"Huh?"

"What were you doing with my stuff, anyway?"

Her tone is weird, "Oh, nothing!" she catches herself, "I was just – leaving a surprise? You'll find out when you open it, later."

It's the letter.

* * *

_Am I still breathing?_

_Have I lost that feeling?_

_Am I made of glass?_

_'Cuz, you see_

_right through me_

_I don't know who I am_

_and you're the only one who sees that_

_I can't ask these questions that cannot be answered_

_today_

* * *

**lyrics © Trapt, "Made of Glass."**


	35. Ambiversion

_**AMBIVERSION.**_

* * *

_More Jazzy, musing on her family ..._

* * *

People often comment to Jazmine that her brother is so cute when he's shy. He's not shy. He just learned how to get on peoples' good side right off the bat.

Introversion and shyness are two completely different things, often connected, and often not. Danny isn't really either of them. Maybe he had shy moments as a little kid; that's more out of lack of exposure. Spending most of your days in a classroom and a home where everyone knows you and you know everyone, and then suddenly being confronted with a stranger can make any child clam up and stare at the floor, almost as if embarrassed. These impulses fade by the age of twelve or thirteen or so, it might be younger, rarely is it older. If someone is still painfully, problematically, "shy," like that by the time they're sixteen years old, there's a high probability that they are autistic, or held back by PTSD. Or both. When it's autism, it usually is both ...

Speculations on her grandmother's genes – and, thus, her father's ... and hers – aside, she's off-topic. Her brother is an ambivert, a blend of their parents. Their mother is a willful introvert, seeing no need to sit down and chat with anyone without good reason, and in Maddie Fenton's mind, the only good reasons are family, friends of family, and getting something done. Yet, she is a human being, and humans are a social species. A smile from a cashier while waiting in line is something Maddie appreciates.

Jack is different. Jack will talk the face off of anybody if he feels like it. That's the thing, though. He has to _feel_ like it.

Is the cashier smiling at him to make him leave quicker, or are they genuinely being nice? Through questioning, he revealed to his daughter that his own mother was heavily ridiculed and insecure, and he inherited that. He overcame it, but he also admitted to Jazmine that sometimes he can't help but feel frustrated at himself. He can socialize perfectly fine when he isn't thinking about it, and then a second later he sits down to talk with somebody and he frightens them off – because everyone knows there is just one topic in particular Jack Fenton truly cares to discuss in his free time.

She'll tell him he has Asperger's syndrome someday.

Or not.

She must figure out if it'll depress him even more, first.

Jazz, herself, was born with a sliver of that syndrome in her. It's less severe than earlier generations ( she thinks ), but, it's there. Enough to affect her personality. She just doesn't care to talk about things that disinterest her. She comes across as stuck-up, every once in awhile, she knows she does and she ended up with quite a few vicious enemies in childhood. Time went on and she learned to recognize when to walk away better. Maturity is a lifesaver.


	36. Convoluted

_**CONVOLUTED.**_

* * *

"'Undead Staff,' is kinda cheesy, Dad," Freddy turns said staff over and over again in his hands. He's never seen a real _staff_ before – per se. A lot of the carnies who work for his parents carry staff-like things around with them, accessories to go with their crazy outfits. They aren't really the same … this one looks and somehow feels a thousand times more legitimate. It's no kung-fu staff or anything, but that's not the same, either. Freddy lacks the critical eye of an expert, but its make has to be … old … which is infinitely more impressive, considering how flashy its gem – orb? – is. That would've cost a pretty penny back in the day, unlike in the present, where big swirly plastic things can be purchased anywhere.

His father gives him a wry look through his peripheral, "It came with that name, son. Don't ask me," right. Don't ever ask. Sometimes these things come from unsavory sources. Freddy hates that. He hates knowing he lives with a bunch of people who don't care to –

Get their hands dirty –

Every now and again. And then some more.

_You should be grateful,_ his mother sighs at him some days, _at least we don't resort to killing people._ She says it with such _bother_, as if he's the only reason they don't. _Because, trust me, sweetheart, there are more leeches and moochers in this traveling act than you even realize._ How she can ever manage to return to her motherly persona so flawlessly directly after telling her son this is flummoxing.

His dad just thinks he watches too much TV. _Most of it is naïve. You're melting your brain with it._ And it makes Freddy just want to –

Want to what?

He can't do anything.

He loves his parents. They're screwed-up, but they love their kid. It's difficult to fathom how two people who don't mind the idea of kicking a pregnant woman onto the curb when she's no longer useful in their troupe can possibly love a child, but, well. The Showenhower family has a motto : _love none but thine own flesh and blood. _It sounds like a good motto if you don't sit there a moment and really think about it. It's basically saying that everyone else can go and die if they're not related. If you sit there and think about it even _more_, you'll realize that's actually how most people think, just on a less extreme scale. Usually. Why are so many orphans never adopted? Because nobody wants a kid that isn't technically theirs. Nobody wants to bother with a kid that already comes with issues. Oh, every parent instills some kind of issue in their child. You didn't torment this boy or girl. Someone else did. Someone else's mark is on them. Not yours.

That's the human race.

Freddy hates the human race.

He wishes he were something else …

"Why did you kick out Mrs. Cryer?"

Mrs. Showenhower's voice answers immediately from the other side of the room, "She was a bitch, honey."

Freddy winces. "She didn't do anything."

His father's familiar open smile – open only for Freddy, and Freddy's mother – suddenly closes up. "That is exactly why. She sat there and whined about her pregnancy, month after month." She was _pregnant_. What _else_ was she supposed to do?! "She can miscarry for all I care," that shoots alarm through Freddy, and it shows on his face. Catching it at once, Mr. Showenhower snaps, "Don't look at me that way!" The air becomes electrified and Freddy braces himself.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Showenhower's shoulders slacken.

"Son, I know what you must think of me, right now, but you'll understand, someday."

No. No, he won't.

Freddy absorbs the words, and how utterly ridiculous they are. Sixteen years. Sixteen _years_ of these double-standards and … and, murder! There's no other way to describe it. Abandoning a pregnant woman on the side of the road might as well be sentencing her to death.

"God damn sociopaths!" He stomps away, aware that his mother will deal him a vicious slap for his rudeness later. For the first time, the cowardliness of a child doesn't raise its head. His mother's wrath doesn't inspire terror in him as it used to. His father – is another story. Mr. Showenhower is a grown man, and has a big fist like any common man. He'll worry about that some other time.

They haven't left town yet. Mrs. Cryer must still be around. He remembers her. She was kind – slightly aloof, but when the son of the two persons you hate most in the entire world is trying to make idle chat with you, anyone would be. The missus in her name doesn't indicate a husband – she's a widow. And young. So very, very young. Freddy is sixteen. She hadn't even struck him as twenty-one. A teen mother? And they _kicked her out_?

He hates his parents.

With every inch of his being.

He's got to _help_ her, somehow. There were rumors circulating through the troupe while she was still here –

There are always rumors about everybody –

But what if these are true?

He shakes his head and tells himself that it isn't true. People are cruel things, and they can come up with anything. She can't be suicidal! She has a baby! She can't –

He remembers watching a show on TV that said pregnant women have fluctuating hormones. Depression. Moodiness. Well, yeah, of course, having a baby is hard work –

What was that about depression?

No. No, no, no.

He breaks into a sprint.

He's still holding the staff in a death-grip. He never let go of it.

He never does.

* * *

"BREAKING NEWS! A homeless woman, heavily pregnant, killed herself late last night at 11:30 PM. Her pregnancy was almost nine months through, and by means of a miraculous cesarean section performed by ambulance medics, the infant has survived, an as-of-yet unnamed malnourished baby boy. A teen young man by name of Frederich Isak Showenhower acted as savior, claiming to have been searching for the woman, Lydia Cryer, all night. Some may recognize Frederich as a member of the traveling carnival visiting town for the next week. He states that Lydia had also been a member of his carnival and was forcefully kicked out – his words – for simply being pregnant, also his words. Further investigation by police into the matter is happening as we speak. More at nine!"


	37. Indecision

**_INDECISION._**

* * *

_Combined expansions of two of __**Sapphireswimming's**__ oneshots. You might know her as the super-cool person who runs the Phandom Rewatch project. She's a friend o' mine. I really recommend her stuff; I can't quite remember the titles of the two hundred __word drabbles I borrowed for this ( with her permission beforehand, of course, she loves it when people write things for her ), as there are quite a lot and I suspect it would take me awhile to find them again, haha, but the name of the drabbleseries itself is, "Turning Pages." Take a look-see. Mention that I referred you._

* * *

Dani shelters under an outcropping of rock, thankful that Amity Park is a locally famous camping center, thankful that she can find a secluded place to give all of her attention to smothering the choking sensation in her throat. She hates crying. She hasn't in months, her travels and the things she witnessed – good ( those Tibetan monks ), and bad ( see, Dani, you don't have the worst deal ever, quit bein' so whiny ) soothing the sting of Vlad's rejection. It's hard enough trying to convince the Grays and the Fentons – now that they know, god, why was she so stupid and thoughtless – Danny himself warned her that she should focus more on not instinctively transmorphing in her sleep – that being a halfa didn't make her some unstable, pitiable quasi-human – she doesn't _wanna_ be all-human, she likes the way she is! – and-and it'll probably be easier if she just told Danny ( DanDad … ) what's happening … that …

That, if the assholes can manage to find her ( she takes pride in her flightiness ), the more criminally-inclined enemies of the Phantom come after _her_. Why not? She has connections to the guy. She _looks_ like him, and they're petty enough to take advantage of that, even if she doubts Plasmius went buzzing through the Badlands, telling every wanted specter he came across _why_ there's some pathetic little girl with a strong resemblance to the second halfa in existence, with a higher catch-rate than Warden Walker's so-called professionally-trained goons. _Danny's_ catch-rate, not Danielle's. She can't stomach fighting, anymore. Her emancipation from Vlad, and the trauma of it, effectively strangled her own ferocity. She's a wanderer at heart these days. The one difference between her and Danny. Danny gets a certain light in his eyes at the opportunity to _hurt something_, especially a jerkface sorta something, but Dani just can't … muster it, anymore.

She pulls at her suit, taking in the stark white symbol emblazoned there. Her target. She wonders why she insists of keeping it. It's not hers, after all. It's _his_.

Valerie watches Danielle from a distance. She's been doing that a lot. Just, watching. Not interfering. She probably should. She _should_ probably zip straight over there on her hoverboard, right now, no hesitation, and ask what's wrong. But, she doesn't. For one, someone might see the Red Huntress associating herself with a _ghost_, of all things, and secondly : Valerie doesn't know what she'd say.

She wants to. People have said a lot of things about her, especially since the dreaded drama of highschool began, but _procrastinator_ has never made that list. She's always made nose-dives for whatever she wanted, and rarely regretted those actions. She didn't regret dating Danny Fenton, even if he turned out to as hopeless a venture as she'd suspected he'd be. Oh, she almost lured him away from Manson's path for awhile. It didn't last. Oh well. Some things are meant to be.

If she'd been allowed to pick, instead of having been the one chosen, Valerie Gray would've been the very last person Valerie Gray would've designated as Amity Park's foremost ghosthuntress. 'Foremost' – is that arrogant? She's a teenage girl with a fondness for aiming deadly inventions at a whole array of monsters which, by all rights, shouldn't exist. Ghosts give her the creeps. Always have. Horror movies freaked her out growing up, and she indulged Halloween costumes for the sake of her friends ( ex-friends ) in the past. The annual sugar rush the piles of chocolate, candy, and general excitement to be out roaming the neighborhood with so many other kids, those were benefits that countered the scariness. Back then. She's older now.

While she won't admit it to anyone, she's still scared. Of what? Of the otherwordliness. The inhumanity. The … the way reality seems to warp if she stares at them for too long. Does she still jump when a ghost pops up around her on patrol? Maybe. Maybe a little. She congratulates herself, though, because she hasn't outright screamed in ages.

It doesn't matter that she's scared. They've messed with her life, she's going to mess with their _deaths_.

But, Danielle isn't dead.

Not all the way …

Not …

The tears are streaming down Dani's face now, her mouth clenched closed teeth-crackingly hard, swallowing her sobs. The sheer force of it is _visible_, and Valerie … doesn't … know … what to do … for a human.

Who is not.


	38. Melting the Defenses

**_MELTING THE DEFENSES._**

* * *

_Tumblr didn't exist back in 2003 / 2004, which is the time-set of this oneshot, but let's just ignore that for now, okay?_

* * *

_"It's difficult to have a foot in more than one world. You get immersed in one, and unintentionally forget about the other. To be a halfa, or just a person stuck in two areas of life, you need to be a serious multitasker. Danielle's just starting to learn this. I hope she takes it well."_

– Daniel Sabastian Fenton-Phantom.

* * *

Danielle sniffles into her napkin. It's gross. It's dinnertime. She'll kill her appetite at this rate. Why does she have to have a cold? Well, it would be dinnertime, if she hadn't come home ( home! ) so late.

There's a sticky-note on the fridge door. _Help yourself to some food, Danielle._ It's Damon's handwriting. Her legal, adoptive father. In Dani's mind, Danny, her originator, is more like a father to her than Mr. Gray, and especially more than Vlad had been. She doesn't like to think about Vlad. She's grateful for Damon's concern, anyway.

They've gone to bed.

Or, maybe … out.

Danielle can tell, just by looking around, that this is a new house for them. Either that, or they just like to shove most of their possessions in moving boxes normally. Hey. She's seen freakier. She ain't judging.

She opens the fridge. Not for food. She's not hungry. She might've stolen a tray or two from the Nasty Burger behind some customers' backs. It isn't the first time. She's burning up, she's been active all night. The cool conditioning of the refrigerator helps. A second later, she's smacking her forehead – the stinkin' _freezer_ would be better, won't it? Idiot!

"Are you alright?"

Dani jumps. "Damon! Uh, Mr. Gray!" She still feels weird calling him by his given name. Good thing she wasn't stupid and forgot to transmorph from specter form, again.

"I'm coolio!" She chirps. "Um. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he reassures, "I'm just glad you're home safe."

Home. To him, this is her home.

Uh …

It'll get that way? Eventually? Sure it will! Um …

Good thing Axion Labs hired Damon again, or he never would have afforded it, and then she'd never have gotten the chance to try like she does now. Or, at least, that's what Valerie says.

He looks like he wants to say something.

"Soooo."

He smiles. Encouraging.

"Sooo yeaaaahhh. School starts for me tomorrow, right."

"Summerschool; it certainly does. Do you think you can handle it?"

"I handle everything else," yeah, right, "I bet ya two dollars."

That raises a brow. "You have two dollars?"

" … Nope." She doesn't even understand how money works. "Maybe that's something I can learn."

"How to get two dollars?"

"No, I mean … well, yeah. How to get a job and not break the cash-register. That's what I meant."

He rests his chin in his hands. "Hoo boy."

"I know, right?"

* * *

Summerschool sucks the balls of the parasite-consuming fish attached to hippopotamus anuses. Danielle takes immense pride in her ability to formulate unique expletives.

First, the special-ed class is right across the hallway from hers, and that wouldn't be so bad if they weren't so _loud_, and to top the cherry icing on this cupcake – that's the correct phrase isn't it – Danielle is stuck with all the bitchy girls in transparent low-cut blouses and silken leggings. Leggings. Aren't they kinda young for those? This isn't freakin' Church Sunday.

What's more, they have every free right to be pretty. They're charming and perfect and going somewhere with their full-lives. And they're _cheerful_. Ugh. It is disgusting. Ewness!

They have free time at the moment while their teacher and her teacher-assistant set up today's powerpoint. Danielle's already introduced herself, being met only with investigating gazes into her very _soul_, by the quieter, meaner-spirited ones, and friendly waves from the slightly less self-centered ones. She herself is trying not to talk much. It's like with that guy on Animal Planet who hangs around a pride of lions and does his best to stay obscure and uneaten. If you don't get mixed up with them and their drama, maybe they won't skin you alive with their horrifying daggers of femmy – femininininit – knit – newt? – how the hell is that even pronounced –

_Feminine-ness._

If they're all so good, why are they here? Oh, she sees. They're just trying to,_ "learn more,"_ pssh. A true adolescent flees all semblance of a decent education like the soles of their feet are on fire. Disgrace! Disgrace, she says!

_Oh, you're in A.P. classes, wow!_ Dani grumbles to herself, _That's so cool, but I can walk up the stars backwards, in the dark, with a glass full of water, and sometimes I don't spill it!_ She's never gotten along very well with other people of her gender. No girls are in her friend circle except Sam Manson, Jazz Fenton – her technical big sister? – and, more recently, Valerie Gray. Valerie is a long story, kind of an awkward one, because how many kids live with someone who looks at them with a hint of fear whenever they bring up how fun it is to fly?

How many?

Okay, the humor defenses aren't working as well anymore …

She asks for a bathroom break. Once she's in there, she heads straight for the nearest empty stall, transmorphs – the sound of the heater is enough to override the distinct _shing_ of the blue-white rings which form at her waist – well, more specifically her hips, boys like Danny and, er, Plasmius are the ones whose transmorph-rings naturally start at the waist – one of those stupid _boy-things _– anyway what was she doing?

Oh, yeah.

She's ditching class.

_What_? Don't look at her like that. You would, too.

She floats to the roof of Casper High and just kinda keeps floating there for a bit.

For a while she doesn't really think of anything. Then a thought comes to her.

Why is she so _insane_? She hates herself. She really does. Seriously. Her jokes only make sense to her. Good thing she has a little common sense and keeps it on the inside most of the time. Valerie might assume the spontaneity comes from the, "crazy ghost," side in her, and close herself off from Danielle even more.

"I'm so naturally funny," Dani says to the air, "because my half-life is a joke." She's not alive, though, is she?

"I don't think you're a joke," comes the voice of her originator, most definitely not as faraway as it was before.

"HOLY SHIT DUDE." Danny jumps at her sudden rise in octave, "SO TOTALLY UNCOOL."

He recovers so quickly that she witnesses a spark of herself. Or, is it that she's the one with his spark? No, shut up. Don't dwell on it. Was that a flash of disapproval in his face at her cursing? "Do you need my help?" The fighting she's not so good at anymore, stabilized or destabilized, but she can sit on the bench and provide cute commentary! Totes! It's not like Danny can keep his mouth shut during a battle any more than she can.

Danny seems to think about it, "In fact, I do, actually. I have an extremely important favor to ask of you."

Danielle swears that her brain, her slow, confused, increasingly depressed brain flickers to life, and she eggs him on, "_Yes_, _good_, _continue_."

She can tell that he obviously finds her really weird right now but he does continue, "It could determine the very fate of Amity Park _and_ the Ghost Zone."

"Okkkkkkk."

"I want you … "

"Go onnnn … "

"_To stay in class_."

All at once, the fog clouding her mind materializes again and she marvels at the way the concrete sidewalk feels against her slack jaw miles and miles below them. "Wh-wh-wh – "

"You heard me." He is smug.

Oh, god. Oh, god, no. This is terrible. This is spiraling beyond control. _He thinks he's clever_. This cannot be allowed to last longer than five Spanish _minutos_.

"Are you a wizard?"

"_No_?"

"Because if you're a wizard that means _I'm_ a – "

"Shut. Up."

"Well, that's great, Dan." She crosses her arms across her chest so fast it makes a whipping sound in the air, "That;s just great. First I almost sleep in before the school-day starts, then Cujo comes rampaging through my room and I have to like _smack _him so he doesn't wake Val and Mr. Damon, oh, and – " His green eyes go wide.

Heroism mode : activated.

"Whoa, whoa, wait," Danny holds up a hand, "What the heck are you talking about?" He actually _censors_ hell. She's touched. And two-hundred-percent _done_ with his overprotectiveness. Cheezus.

So maybe Danielle activated a tumblr blog a couple months ago on Val's laptop. The darn thing is useful.

"How many times have I told you that I've told you this many times?" His clueless blinking is more than enough recompense for his unabashed silliness. "Cujo is pretty much as obsessed with me as he is with you, O Man of Dan."

"He chases _you_ around, too?"

"Yuppers."

"Crap," he tugs at his hair slightly, "Crap, crap, crap."

"Is it really so bad?"

"Well, yeah. Valerie hates the poor mutt. She might think he's trying to hurt you."

"True, true. But. I've been trying to talk to her and say that he's just as stupid as he looks, and, y'know, not all evil and stuff – "

The bitterness, and abruptness, of his answering laughter catches Danielle off guard and perturbs her. "I've been telling her that for years. You wanna know where that hole in his ear came from? Her."

" … Oh."

"_Yuppers_," he mocks. She doesn't acknowledge it. "I know you don't wanna stay here. I know the fakeness of it all drives you nuts, when you know you could be out there with all the people who _really_ know who you are. Trust me. I get it. But you gotta go. If I do, then you do, Dani."

She studies her feet. "Easy for you to say. You don't have summerschool."

"Not now. I do towards the end of summer."

She's surprised at this.

"You better believe it. It's hard to ace a test when you're thinking of ways to keep the school janitor from being decapitated." She doesn't know that feeling. The most holding her back is her own laziness and unwillingness to study the day before. She makes up excuses and lies around, no matter how depressed she might be becoming – that's a setback for other people but not for her – meanwhile Danny sits up awake in the dawn hours stressing over how he tossed Mikey Baker or some other random student out of the way too hard and now they have a huge ugly bruise on their back, and it's all his fault. What if he broke someone's spine?

Dani realizes how miniscule her worries are.

"What I'm saying is … "

"You want me to attend school." Her tone is even and flat. Danny looks her dead on, and the relief is evident.

"You have no idea."

She nods. "Okay."

"Okay?"

She answers by transmorphing and sinking back down into campus.


	39. Too Late

**_TOO LATE._**

* * *

_More from __**Sapphireswimming's**__, "Turning Pages."_

* * *

He gets home late. It doesn't feel late. It's the time he usually gets home. It's just that the lock on his bedroom door has finally rusted over and broken, after so many years of usage, and it's been that way for nearly three weeks now. It constantly drifts open without his consent, giving away one his biggest secrets : he's hardly ever asleep in his bed at night. Where does he go? With the way his parents are panicking, you'd think it was the seventh layer of Hell.

Danny empties the thermos into the Portal, and is halfway out the lab again before it registers. There's something on the largest, shiniest table, the table his parents primarily use for dissections. Something that doesn't belong there. Backtracking, he finds himself staring mistrustfully at a sleek handgun. Despite growing up among weapons, neverendingly warned against their dangers, to the point that he's become a little nonplussed by the violent action films all the other boys his age fawn over – few weapons reload _that_ quickly, John McClane – the sight of the compact killing machine – because, that's what it _is_, there's no sugarcoating it – sends a distinctly uncomfortable chill down his spine. It's different than the chills his icepowers bestow.

FENTON blazes across the barrel, informing him blatantly that it's just another one of his parents' designs. But the slender silver bullets beside it, although glowing with what he presumes to be ectoranium, implies this gun won't only kill ghosts.

That's what unnerves him.

Jack got fed up with waiting. He's already given his two cents on the matter, every morning for a week straight, and now it's his wife's turn. Said wife practically had to shove him into their shared bed so he could get some of the rest he needs. Maddie decides to wait, alone, no matter how long it takes. She faces the door, determined to catch him coming in. She needs an explanation; she is done with the half-lies and evasiveness. She won't get mad, no, though the thought tempts her. She's gotten angry plenty of times before, and it never helped. She's going to change her tactic. She's going to listen. Or that's what she thinks, until 10:37 PM becomes midnight, and midnight becomes 2:30 AM. He staggers in, then. He finds her silhouette in the dark immediately. She wonders how. She can't see a thing other than the whites of his eyes. They are round.

"Danny … "

He tilts his head.

"Are you okay?"

No answer.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?"

The response is rushed, like he's speaking only because despite not wanting to, he knows he must, "Right."

"Sweetie, what's happened to you?"

…

"You're like the ghost of the person you used to be."

Danny doesn't make a sound, and the silence threatens to choke Maddie, "I'm going to bed, Mom. Love ya. Could you get out of my room?" The _no offense_ goes unspoken, or, maybe this is the first time Danny's not going to be polite.


	40. Inexplicable

**_INEXPLICABLE._**

* * *

_Another **Sapphireswimming** thingy-wingy. Before anyone corrects me, yes, I know that the mystery of bees' flight has been solved rather recently, but this oneshot is set around 2005, not 2013. Danny's older, and no, Mads, your son's arms look huge because they are, not because of that jacket. That's what he wants you to think._

* * *

"Danny," Maddie sighs, powering down her blowtorch. "I don't like it."

He meets her eyes quizzically. She's taken aback. Does he always respond so quickly? Sensing his mistake, Danny distracts, "Don't like the … thingamajig?" He gestures at her latest project, currently undergoing revisions which makes it look akin to a melded metal pumpkin. Jack's the blueprint-maker, not her.

"No, not that," she says, gazing at the invention absently, "I don't like this stuff. About the Ghost Boy." She adds, as if in afterthought, unaware her son will always know who she's referring to, no matter how vaguely she clarifies. Danny stiffens, somehow expecting it and yet he was sucked into the familiar feeling of normalcy between them, anyway. Then he shrugs, smirking wryly.

"You never have, Mom. Why stop now?"

He's giving away nothing. That doesn't change the fact he can practically feel it, whatever it may be, bubbling under the surface, "No sweetie, I don't like how I can't … explain him. Things he does, readings I've taken … they don't match up. They don't ever. Science isn't explaining this one, not yet, and I hate it." If this were Jazz, she would've started a bit at the word _hate_. Maddie expects Danny to, too, but, he doesn't. He soaks in her dialogue like he's heard it all before. And he hasn't. Has he? Jack and she have tried their best to keep their personal … conflicts, to themselves, truly, they have. Has some leaked through, despite their efforts?

Her son throws her for a loop, "What if … science can't always explain things, Mom?" She blinks. This isn't like Danny. He's not the purely clinical, experimenting scientist his mother and father are, but he shares their fundamental beliefs, as far as she's known. She knows her baby.

Doesn't she?

She doesn't mean to phrase it as a question, but that's how the sentence leaves her lips, "Of course it does?" Well, sometimes it takes a while – in some cases, decades, centuries, scientists being rewarded with the credit they deserved since the very beginning posthumously. But nothing is permanently a mystery. The truth is uncovered sooner or later.

He holds her gaze for a moment. "How do bees fly when their wings can't support them?"

" … What?"

"How," he's very precise, "do bees fly, when their wings can't _support_ them?"

"I – no one knows."

"Of course not, because it can't be explained by science. It's not a scientific thing. It just _is_. Trust me when I say I wish it wasn't! I mean, I've, tried …" he turns away, leaning against the metal wall, arms crossed against his chest ( the baggy jacket sleeves conceal them, making them appear thicker than they actually are ), as if the sudden force in his tone is too much for even him to bear.

Then, the moment ends. The weight in her son's eyes, about to be shoved out into the light, is tethered to its chains again, and Maddie mourns the loss.

Danny does, as well.


	41. Handsoap

**_HANDSOAP._**

* * *

Arts and crafts aren't exactly Daniel's biggest interest, but he's one of those kids whose face lights up when the activity is announced in class. There's still time left before the bus arrives. So, why not have some fun with finger-painting? Not too much! We're _all_ going to wash our hands _thoroughly_ before we leave …

Daniel understands why he has to wash his hands – he's seen it himself, the icky stuff on his palms just _vanishes _when he scrubs them with water and soap – but some of his other classmates don't seem to get it like he does. They whine and groan, "But I _hate_ washing my hands!" or, "It's so annoying! It takes forever!" But Daniel doesn't listen to them. Paint tastes bad when you sit down to eat a snack, only to find that the flavor of your Cheez-Its is overwhelmed by dried paint when you lick the cheese off your fingers. So, washing hands is a must.

Of course, soap doesn't taste that great, either. He always forgets to dry off his hands with a towel. Bleh. He's hungry already. He wishes his Mom packed him Cheez-Its, but she didn't. She makes sure to tell him what she sends with him for snacktime at school every morning. He likes knowing what's going on all of the time, and she knows that. She says he inherited it from her. She says Jazzy has it, too, and that's why she comes home crying so many days from school. The other kids, and even the teachers, call her nosy and annoying, and it makes Mom _really_ angry. Especially the teachers part. They should know better than to say things like that to a child! More importantly, her _daughter_.

Fortunately, Danny doesn't seem to have the bad luck Jazzy has with people her own age. He gets along fine with them mostly, unless they're one of those temperamental kids. Maddie tries to censor what she thinks about the parents of certain children attending his school, but … it just kind of … doesn't work, sometimes.

Danny doesn't understand any of _that_. His Mom says, again and again, that its the kids' parents' faults for the way the kids act, but he's never seen a grown-up fall on the floor screaming in a tantrum. That's what some of the boys he knows do, and, like, three of the girls. They're bullies. They snatch Danny's chips away if he doesn't keep an eye on them. If he wants them back, they call him stupid. He has no idea how their Mom and Dad have anything to do with that sorta thing. They're probably nicer to their Mom and Dad, because they _know _them. Danny doesn't act like he does at home during school. Why should they?

He describes this to his teacher, who sits in her revolving chair gawking at him.

"What?"

She blinks, over and over, and then finally shakes her head, "You are the most intelligent little boy I have ever met."

He wasn't expecting that. He stares at her. "'Kay. Thank you."

Her lip twitches and she starts cracking up at the look on his face. He pouts, "What? What's so funny?" She's beaming.

"Nothing. I'm just thinking about how blessed I am to have such a smart student."

Daniel puffs out his chest, "Thanks!" She busts out laughing again.

She – Mrs. Hazen – checks the time. "Oh! It's time to go! The bus is here!" All the kids are broken out of their painting stupor. Mrs. Hazen feigns shock. "Oh, my goodness! Did you _forget about the field-trip_?"

"Nooooo!"

Mrs. Hazen sure is laughing a lot, today.

"Well, then, let's get ready to go! The bus driver's only going to wait for so long." She says this with an air of omnipotence, a tone of voice Danny's noticed that most adults who deal with children all day often take on. She claps her hands and chants, "Clean-up, clean-up, everybody clean-up, clean-up … " Everybody is soon following along, wiping spills off tabletops and putting away their paint-bottles in the appropriate cabinets. No matter how mature for his age Danny may be, he can't help but get sucked into the song, like any other elementary school kid. The singing is uncannily harmonious, the kind of harmony achieved by a bunch of little kids who are on the same page. The classroom has only one sink, so everyone has to take their turn waiting in line. To Danny's surprise, nobody complains. He guesses they forgot.

"Scrubba-dub-dub … " he mutters, feeling the sensation of soap bubbles squishing between his thumb and index finger.


End file.
